


The Need of Being Versed in Country Things

by MembraneLabs



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: F/M, Harlan Thrombey playing games from beyond the grave, Slow Burn, Twisting the knife, dude she could have DIED, estate reconciliation is traumatic, half-your-age-plus-seven-years rule is in FULL EFFECT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22143283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MembraneLabs/pseuds/MembraneLabs
Summary: When the truth was revealed, often it was not the last he saw of the parties involved. He was anticipating having to testify at Hugh Ransom Drysdale’s trial in the spring, for example. But this was new territory for him.As he put his focus towards the problem at hand, in the back of his mind was the realization that he had to approach this not as the great Benoit Blanc—But as a friend.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Comments: 234
Kudos: 943





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you want a peak into where my brain was while writing this, enjoy this Spotify playlist I started for this fic! https://open.spotify.com/user/1239912297/playlist/7rbNC7NxtraMnnFRphT4DC?si=LPdTfRfYSYKOdeIvLOAz5A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Robert Frost for the title. 
> 
> This chapter brought to you by listening to "Losing my Mind" from Sondheim's FOLLIES on repeat for hours. How dare you, Rian Johnson, having Blanc sing THAT song in the car. How. DARE. You.

Benoit Blanc was not a man accustomed to nightmares. He had been blessed with a mind that would examine the steps leading to an inevitable conclusion in his waking hours, and then leave such thoughts be when it was time for sleep. Moreso, he did not often dwell on the what-ifs or might-have-beens. That was far too fanciful stuff, and he honestly believed that in his many years of investigating, his successes far outweighed his failures. 

So when his sleep became consumed by visions of Marta Cabrera lying in a pool of darkening blood at the foot of a throne of knives, he found himself wishing he was the sort who could wake up from a bad dream. No, instead his brain insisted on dwelling on each concocted detail, from the peculiar mix of smells he remembered from that day (books, fall air, the sourness of stomach contents), to the sound of Sondheim in slow motion, to the flush in Marta’s face draining away as her hand limply fell away from the hilt sticking out of her still chest. 

Regardless of the cases he had taken since he took his leave of Marta and the Thrombeys, his brain returned to the day in the manor. Chastising him that but for the good fortune of a trick knife, the murder of Marta Cabrera would have been the greatest personal failure in his illustrious career. That he, flush in the satisfaction of nailing Hugh Ransom Drysdale dead to rights thanks to the resolve of the marvelous Marta, had been too slow—

No. 

He had been too complacent to anticipate the violent desperation of a brutish, entitled brat. 

In hindsight he wondered, perhaps with a discomforting twinge, that maybe his investigation had been clouded. He tried to push the introspection aside—his method had worked, hadn’t it? Brought him to the singular revelatory moment neither too early, nor too late, but precisely when he meant to, as was his want.

Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps however he had not done enough; perhaps worse, he had done too much. 

Honest always had to start from within, so his father said, and looking back, yes. He had wanted Marta to be innocent. When he triggered her particular reflex upon their first meeting it felt like a victory, like a steamer to layers of old wallpaper, allowing him to peel away more of the hideous stuff the family had tried to throw up to hide the rot underneath. 

But had he thought her innocent then? He’d told her she had nothing to gain from Harlan’s death, and he’d believed that. Moreover, though he was not a gambling man, he trusted in her truly unfortunate tell. The one person unable to lie to him. 

Well, that had been a fool thing to rely on, hadn’t it? Like a fairy tale character trapped in a witch’s curse, Marta had found a work around in her own way, moving in his blind spot. And he’d invited her right into that spot, thinking he was getting the upper hand on the Thrombeys’ web of lies. 

No. The great Benoit Blanc had gotten lucky in the Thrombey case. Lucky in Marta’s uncommon decency, her kindness regardless of a dark desperation. Lucky in that everything fell into place just at his feet like he had always relied on. 

It was a new case in early February that made him pause in particular. A nasty little affair also involving money and an entitled family; but in this New York Upper East Side cabal the worthless son had conspired with the granddame’s very ambitious nurse. They had even planned on running away together once the deed was done and the will had been settled, and Benoit found his face twisting with disgust, with the certainty that Marta would have NEVER—

But then he remembered watching Hugh Ransom Drysdale peeling off in his BMW with Marta by his side, and feeling—

Well he honestly couldn’t tell what he had been feeling.

Now why was that? He’d seen the thunderbolt of shock on her face, after all, had stepped in when the family’s gentile racism twisted to pure vitriol as they turned on her. He’d been certain she’d be able to get to her car, that he’d be able to get the kicked yellowjackets settled back inside with the help of Elliott and Wagner, check in and offer her a word of comfort while collecting more of her insight later on that day. 

In reality, Benoit had practically handed the murderer a head start at a second chance, but he hadn’t known that at the time. So what had it been about the sight of them together in the young Drysdale’s car, and then later in hers that unsettled him so much?

He could swear it felt like he was losing his—

His phone rang three times before he plucked it from the charger at his desk. Unknown number, but it had a South Boston area code. 

“Is this Detective Blanc?” the voice on the other end asked. Young, probably a woman, with an accent similar to Marta’s.

‘Please, call me Mr. Blanc,” he replied, settled down at his desk. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking—”

“I’m Alice, Marta Cabrera’s sister,” she jumped in. “I found your number online. You remember Marta, right?” And the concern was apparent.

“I could hardly forget her,” he assured Alice, tapping down a spike of concern. “Has something happened?” 

For as quickly as the younger Cabrera spoke, she seemed to struggle with what to say next. “Look, this isn’t a favor, like, I can pay you, you know, but I need you to talk some sense into Marta. She won’t listen to me and I can’t tell mom about what’s happening because she will freak out but Marta is being Marta—”

“First off, Miss Cabrera—”

“Call me Alice,” she ordered with the snap of youthful impatience. 

“Alice. From the beginning. Now, has something happened to Marta?”

“No. But something might and she’s not taking it seriously.”

“Is she being threatened?”

“We were doxxed. Like, really bad. And we had to stay at that creepy old house for days because like, that old guy she was friend’s with, like, his house is unsearchable, he was like, super paranoid, right because of his fans, and he liked to think he could be, like, untraceable and stuff? So Marta had us pack everything up and put stuff in storage and she was like, don’t worry, we’re going to find a new place to live, someplace way safer, and then like, mom was finally able to get a green card so Marta sent her to to visit our family in Phoenix, and mom hasn’t seen them since before like I was born, it’s a big deal. She just couldn’t risk it before. And Marta was like, hey, that deadline for that study abroad you’ve been wanting to do is still open, you should go while I handle all this mess, don’t worry about it, don’t worry about the cost, I’ll have us all set up someplace really nice once you get back, leave it to me—and look, getting doxxed was AWFUL, I didn’t want to deal with it so I just figured ok sure, let Marta handle it but now I’m not there and like, people are posting these really awful things about Marta ever since that article--”  
Benoit trusted his memory, but he trusted a pad and a pencil moreso, and he paused in his note-taking. “Forgive the interruption, Alice, but what article?” 

“The one about the turn over at Blood for Water or whatever being finalized and they interviewed like, that guy’s son and he just said all these things about how it was all stolen from the family’s hands and how they are still grieving not only their father but like his father’s legacy and if you go on Reddit—”

Benoit was familiar with the idea of Reddit. His mouth turned downwards.

“There’s all these fanboys just—look, that shit is upsetting, but like, women get murdered all the time by internet randos and she’s not listening to me, like this isn’t serious and I’m just blowing it all out of proportion, but this is serious, she’s there all by herself and if my sister ends up murdered by some crazy internet creep because she just wouldn’t go to the police I’ll—I’ll—Mr. Blanc—”

“Alice—” he tried to start when he heard her breath start to hitch. 

Alice pulled herself together. “But I remembered. She likes that detective that found out she was innocent, like, really likes him, super respects him, right? Maybe she’d listen to him if he was like, hey, take this serious, stop camping in that damn creepy house all alone when all those crazy people online are trying to find you! Go to the cops, file a goddamn report and don’t keep bending over backwards for the goddamn Thrombeys!”

When he could finally get a word in edgewise, he took the opportunity. “Alice, I want to thank you for reaching out. It’s obvious how deeply you care about your sister, and I can assure you I consider this a personal favor. There is absolutely no need for payment. Now, I’m going to give you my email, and I want you to send me everything you’ve found so far. Now I’m going to do more research myself, and—” he checked the time. He might still be able to reach out to Marta before it got too late if he could be quick about it. He wanted no further delay, but he wanted to understand the situation as fully as possible. 

“Yea, yea, ok, I’ve got like, a Google folder, I’ll share the link,” she said, and he could hear the quick, small sniffles on the other line. “Look, when you talk to Marta, don’t let her think you don’t think she can handle it, ok? She’s super stubborn—”

“Stubborn?” he repeated, and he felt surprised by that. 

“Oh my God you have no idea. When she decides she knows best it’s like—” And the noise Alice made was universal. 

He assured Alice again he would do what he could, and double checked if the number in his phone was still Marta’s. 

“Oh, you saved that?” Alice asked, surprised. “Yea, it’s still her number, though who knows if it’ll be for long if it gets leaked.”

“Well, then best not to dawdle then,” he offered. He gave her his email, again his assurance he would do everything possible, and his goodbyes. 

The younger Cabrera hung up, and Benoit woke his desktop up to begin. 

When the truth was revealed, often it was not the last he saw of the parties involved. He was anticipating having to testify at Hugh Ransom Drysdale’s trial in the spring, for example. But this was new territory for him.

As he put his focus towards the problem at hand, in the back of his mind was the realization that he had to approach this not as the great Benoit Blanc—

But as a friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benoit vexed a ball of paper in his hand. It had been a long shot, but after the things he had read people posting on the Internet about Marta he had hoped that if she hadn’t filed a report with the precinct in her old neighborhood, maybe she would have filed with Detective Lieutenant Elliott’s department.

“Nothing?”

“Benny, she didn’t file any report about harassment in this county. Believe me. I would have noticed.”

In the background Benoit could hear Trooper Wagner’s voice asking Detective Lieutenant Elliott what was up. 

“It’s Blanc,” Elliott said, his voice softer. He must have moved his mouth away from the speaker. 

“What? Really? Has something happened? Does he need our help? Is it another case?” Wagner estastically asked, his voice getting louder among the background buzz of some bar or other establishment two colleagues might go to after work. 

“Don’t!”

“Come on, let me say hi, I’m never going to get over how amazing it was working with him--”

“Dude, you’re a trooper, this shit is your job--”

“Not like that! That was like, someone reached into my childhood and gave me my greatest wish, it’s never going to happen again but let a man dream!--”

Elliott made the sort of noises a man makes trying to swat a hand away from his cellphone. Some manner of heated discussion followed, but it was difficult to follow.

“Hang on, Benny,” Elliott said, and there was a sudden swell of more noise, then a blessed drop.

“Look, we’re outside, I’ve got you on speakerphone,” Elliott explained with the world weariness of a man completely done. 

“Hi Benny!” Wagner piped up, and Benoit could hear the wave in his voice. 

“Trooper Wagner, I hope you are well?” Benoit offered. 

“I’m fantastic! Sir, you have no idea, like--”

“Not the time, bro,” Elliott said, again with a muffled voice. Probably had put his hand half way over the microphone. Benoit felt a bloom of fondness for the pair of them. They had been helpful, and moreover, useful. It was rare for him to find both when weaseling his way into an investigation that had been considered open and shut. 

“Gentlemen, I would love to exchange pleasantries, but there appears to be some loose threads to our last collaboration, and I hope you can illuminate.”

And so, he told them all he knew. 

“Oh yea, it’s been the worst. Fandom has been insufferable, everyone thinks they know what really happened.”

“The Fandom?” Elliott repeated drily. 

“I don’t give you grief about how you spend your free time!” Wagner shot back. 

“Yes, but, it appears there is an unhealthy focus on our Miss Cabrera,” Benoit said, attempting to course-correct. 

“They’ve been focused on her ever since that alt-right shit livestreamed her running away after the will reading” Wagner groaned. 

Benoit did not like coming late to a party. It felt rude. “Pardon?” he asked.

“Yea, That Kid was the WORST,” Wagner sighed dramatically. “And it’s not like he covers his tracks, he wants to be the next Ben Shapiro, just you know--”

“You’re saying words and I’m sure they are English but only because I know you aren’t having a stroke right now,” Elliott snapped. 

“I consider it part of my job to translate Gen Z,” and the glee in Wagner’s voice was palatable. 

“...sorry, Benny, excuse and ignore him,” Elliott said, and the background noise dipped again. He’d turned away from whatever was causing it. 

“Gentlemen, my apologies, it’s obvious nothing has been filed and I would hate to impose--”

Yes, it was a lie. But it was a small one to try and get his foot in the door with a precinct he otherwise had no tie to outside of one precious incident. That was how he worked. Sometimes he followed the natural trajectory of Truth by running ahead and opening the gate for its path, let it pass like the gentleman he was, and then followed its footsteps in the grass. 

Elliott sighed. It was long and carried multitudes. “Look, Benny--if she hasn’t reported anything at the house, there’s not much I can do. I can’t really do a social call, you know? But we can maybe, as a favor, keep an eye open.”

“I can keep an eye what’s being posted!” Wagner jumped in. “I mean, this stuff is not just on Reddit.”

“Thank you, gentleman. Just trying to get the jump on how credible these threats might be. I’ll reach out to Marta and--”

“Oh, you kept in touch with her?” Wagner piped up, almost breathy. 

“No,” Benoit said like it should have been obvious.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Well I just thought--never mind.”

“I still have her number, but I’m afraid my call will be a bit out of the blue,” Benoit explained, trying to put...something...in its place. 

“Benny, how’d you even find out about this?” Elliott asked, and his tone was one of a man who had forgotten about his beer because he wanted to see all the cards. 

“Marta’s sister reached out to me, concerned. She’s hoping the elder might listen to reason if it doesn’t come from a younger sister.” 

“Internet harassment is tough. But without a file there really isn’t anything we can do,” Elliot admitted. 

“I will do my best to gauge her reception to the suggestion she should get on that,” Benoit sighed. “According to the younger Cabrera she has been incredibly stubborn.”

“Stubborn?” Elliott repeated. 

“According to the younger Cabrera.”

“Would not have pegged her as stubborn,” Wagner said. 

“Thank you, gentlemen. I will let you know of any changes, and I would appreciate the same.” And he ended it at that. 

Benoit vexed a ball of paper in his hand. It had been a long shot, but after the things he had read people posting on the Internet about Marta he had hoped that if she hadn’t filed a report with the precinct in her old neighborhood, maybe she would have filed with Detective Lieutenant Elliott’s department. 

He clicked through the tabs on his browser, back to the Times article about the changing of the guard at Blood Like Wine. It was not a denouement, but Walt Thrombey had been dramatic in his grief at the loss of the family’s hold on their father’s legacy. He’d moaned in print, weeping to bring the beloved texts to a wider audience through visual media, but now fearing that that would never be. The publication had sparked rage among the loudest of Harlan Thrombey’s over-eager fans online, and Alice’s call had followed closely on its heels. 

Well, there was nothing much for it. It was time to call Marta. 

He picked up his watch from the desk--it was nearly 9pm. He hesitated for a moment, questioning the appropriateness of calling Marta at this time. But then again, he had to approach this more as a social call than as a wellness check. Lord, it would probably be awkward regardless. 

How best to approach Marta? Benoit had always prided himself on being able to quickly read and mirror a person’s demeanor, to get them, if not open up to him, at least, taunt him. But Marta was neither. And again, this was a cold call from a particularly awful time of her life. 

_‘She likes that detective that found out she was innocent, like, really likes him’_

“Just be friendly,” he muttered to himself as he typed the number. “You have it on good authority she likes you.”

But a strange weight stuck in in throat as he listened to the phone ring on the other side.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hello Marta,” he began at the voicemail prompt. Disappointing–he’d have to try again in the morning. “This is Benoit Blanc. I hope all is well. This must feel a bit out of the blue but I was reading an article and thought of you. I’m terribly sorry to have missed you, I hope you might return my call; at your convenience of course. Oh, someone’s—oh, you’re trying to call me back, hang on–Wait I don’t want to put this call on hold this voice message has really gone on long enough—maybe if I press this one?–”

“Mr. Blanc?” 

Marta’s voice was small, uncertain. Uncharacteristically, he found himself struggling with what to say next. “Please; call me Benoit,” he stalled. 

“I...ok,” she said. The pause was uncomfortable. Awkward, as he feared it would be. “Is everything alright?” she finally asked, and her tone was that of someone staring down the wobble of the final straw. “Has something happened?” 

He quickly made a series of reassuring noises. “No, no, nothing has happened at this time,” he offered.

“At this time? Do you think something is going to happen?” Marta stammered, her voice rising. 

Well. This had gone terribly wrong _.  _ “No! No, I just wanted to see how you were doing. I know the trial doesn’t have a date yet, just, sometime in the late spring, I’m sure you’re very busy settling affairs–”

And he let the sentence trail off, letting the silence act as bait. 

“Oh, no, I mean, yes. I’ve...been trying to clear out the house. I’m still not sure what to do with it, but it keeps me busy during the day. It’s not like I’m going back into nursing anytime soon.”

“Why ever not?” Benoit asked innocently. 

“I—um,” and it was faint, but perceptible–an audibly nauseous swallow. 

“It really is not important, forgive me for prying–” And he had to admit, the thought she might have tried to lie was a disappointment. 

“I don’t trust myself,” she interrupted, her words jumping out like a snapped spring. There was no retching in the long pause afterwards. Just the sound of shuffling, like she was pacing. 

Benoit’s sympathies bristled as the picture cleared before him. What an injustice, what a heartbreaking thought. 

“My dear Marta, I said it then, and I stand by it, you–”

“It’s...it’s complicated,” she said through a heavy exhale. “ I was looking for a new position, even if it was something short term, a few hours a week. I was hoping work would help distract me, but...I’m second guessing myself. You can’t do that in nursing. You have to trust that you’re careful, that you know what you’re doing. And then people were recognizing me from the news and–”

“I see. I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said. “I can only imagine what transpired was deeply traumatic to you, but the world needs more nurses like you, not less.”

“What about you?” she asked, guiding the conversation away from her. Very well. He could follow her lead for now.

“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary. Handled another few cases. Nothing to write home about. Saw a couple of shows. One of them was even good—”

“Shows? Like theater?” she asked. Creaks and pops of wood erupted in the background. It sounded like she was going up the singular staircase of the Cabrera  née Thrombey estate. 

“I have a fondness for live theater. Musicals especially.”

“Huh.”

“Does that surprise you?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Actually? No,” and she gave a laugh. The creaking stairs had stopped, but then there were two small thuds, like sneakers getting tossed onto a carpet. 

“I’ve often been accused of having a flair for the dramatic,” he said with a flourish as he lowered himself into his armchair. 

“You?  _ Never. _ ” 

And they shared a laugh that faded to a far easier silence than at the beginning of the call. Instinct compelled him towards a direction, and he followed. 

“I hope I’m not keeping you, if some other time is better–”

“No, no it’s...now’s good. It’s nice. To hear your voice. Any voice.”

“Oh?” he prompted. 

She hesitated again. “I’ve been holed up here all alone for days. Sometimes, I feel like I’m the only person left in the world.”

“You mean at the estate?”

“Yes.”

“All by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“But what about your family? Can’t they join you there? Keep you company?” he feigned. 

“Mom’s visiting family now that she has her green card.”

“My sincere congratulations!” And even if it was old news, he was thrilled to hear it from her. “It must be such a relief for y’all.”

“She deserves it. If I lost everything tomorrow, having that means everything.” Wasn’t that just Marta Cabrera all over, he thought. “My sister’s back in school, studying abroad, actually. It’s just me right now. Which. Might have been…”

“An error?”

She aspirated a laugh. “I’m starting to jump when I hear noises. Why did Harlan have to have so many creepy dolls lying around?” she groaned. “I should have made those the first to go. But they have to be inventoried and packaged for the auction–”

“Oh?” he said, leading her on. “An auction?”

“The law firm that helped with my mother–they do a lot of pro bono work for undocumented people. I was talking to the lawyer that helped us and she got really excited about the idea of auctioning off things I’ll donate from the house. Then that money can go into a fund for the work they are doing down at the detention centers. I don’t know if it’s what Harlan would have wanted, but I’m pretty sure it would have made him laugh, especially after–well he hated Richard’s opinions, but Richard was careful to never share those out loud when Harlan was in the room.”

“That is a beautiful thing to do, Marta,” Benoit said, the corner of his mouth lifting from admiration.

“Well, it’s mostly out of spite, if I’m being honest,” but her voice warmed at the confession. 

“If only everyone did something so good out of spite,” he teased, settling back into his armchair. 

“You’d probably be out of a job,” she laughed. 

“Well. I’d land on my feet, usually do. Maybe take up–oh, I’m sure I’d figure it out. Still. That sounds like a hell of a lot of work for one person. Why not hire some people to help you?”

She hesitated, and he waited. His instinct knew–there was something she didn’t want to tell him. Perhaps the sister Alice was wrong. Perhaps she took the threats very seriously. Perhaps it was something else. Highly unlikely he’d get to the bottom of it in a single phone call, as much as he’d give anything for it to just work that way. 

“Alan had some people he recommended, said I could trust them, that Harlan used them in the past.”

“The lawyer from the will reading,” Benoit recalled. 

“He’s a good person. He knows everything about all of This,” and he could almost hear her making a large circle with her arm. “He was helping me with a lot of questions I had before I decided, wait, I should just hire him for all this estate handling. But the family, they want the things that have meaning, and it’s the least I can do–”

It was hard not to scoff. The family could all go hang themselves for all he cared.

Wanetta Thrombey excluded, of course. 

“So I’ve been taking an inventory, which I have to do anyway for tax purposes since I’ll be donating so much of it for the auction. There’s just so much stuff, Harlan just packed every last corner of this house with STUFF!”

“I had noticed. People with rich lives and many momentos, it can be an insurmountable task. I know I felt overwhelmed when my parents passed on–”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Marta offered. 

“Thank you, Marta. It was a trying time. I think the worst of it was not knowing what I was going to find, and then they weren’t even there to explain it, if that makes sense. There’s so many things they just hadn’t thought of and you’re standing there with all the loose threads, trying to augur what they would have wanted. It’s hard work. Physically and emotionally.”

And there was the almost imperceptible sound of sniffling. 

“Marta?”

“You’re right,” she said, trying to control the tremble in her voice. “You’re completely right.”

“I found it incredibly helpful to have someone there, to look at it with an unattached eye,” he admitted. And the thought struck him, a half-mad offer she’d never go for. But oh, if only she did–

“Marta?”

“Yes?”

“I know this is touch presumptuous, and there will be no insult if you said no. But if you’re agreeable, I’d be happy to come up to help.”

“...I couldn’t possibly ask that of you,” she replied, flummoxed. “Your work–”

“Nonsense. I don’t mean to brag, but I make my own time. Besides, I’m at the point of my career that I can afford to take on cases that only capture my interest–”

“How Sherlock of you,” and there was the edge of good-humor to her flummoxing. 

“–and there’s hardly anything of interest for me besides helping you.”

“It’s too much to ask,” she said.

“Oh I know it’ll be hard work. Harder still for you without any help at all.”

“I...I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t need an answer just yet. I’d prefer ‘yes’, but, I’m biased.” 

Her answer hung in the air, and he found himself on the edge of his armchair from the anticipation. It would be the easiest way to keep an eye on her, find a better opening to convincing her to report the harassment. Moreso, he found he did want to see her again, to help in anyway he could. Marta Cabrera deserved it, and hell if he wasn’t going to try and be the one to do it. 

“Yes.”

For a heartbeat he thought his ears had deceived him. 

“Fantastic!” he declared, his heart soaring. “Would it be too much to come up tomorrow? I can leave in the morning.”

“I don’t want you inconveniencing yourself,” she insisted. “Whenever you can is fine.”

“There is no time like the present!” he said, getting up out of his chair. 

“Then tomorrow,” and she sounded still a bit shocked. “I really can’t believe you’d do that.”

“For you, Marta Cabrera, I’d do anything,” he promised. He couldn’t help it, he was elated. He had truly believed she’d turn him down. He cradled his cell between his ear and shoulder as he grabbed his suitcase from the closet.

“This was honestly not how I was expecting my night to go.” She gave a short, embarrassed laugh. “What is even my life anymore? This is insane.”

“Hopefully I can do my part to help get your life back to some semblance of normal,” he assured her.

“You manage that, you could moonlight as a miracle worker,” she said. 

“I’ll have the business cards printed  _ tout de suite. _ ”

“I guess...I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll let you know when to expect me.”

“Benoit?”

How strange it was to finally hear her say his name. 

“Yes?”

“...thank you.”

“Marta. It is truly my absolute pleasure.”


	4. Chapter 4

Benoit was lucky enough to get on a flight first thing in the morning. He’d thought he’d packed appropriately before the flight, but the air was much more biting here, doing it’s best to cut right through his winter coat. He always forgot what actual winter was like. There was even talk of snow.

It was barely noon when he arrived at Two Deerborn Drive, after the car rental, and driving for over an hour. He pulled up to the small groundskeeper’s house at the estate’s entrance, and was shocked to find Mr. Proofroc, the semi-retired employee still there. 

“Mr. Blanc!” Mr. Proofroc exclaimed as he answered the door. “I was just about to do my midday sweep! What brings you back to the Thrombey--Er, Ms. Cabrera’s estate?” He chuckled a little, turning red. “Old habits.”

“Mr. Proofroc. What a complete surprise,” Benoit said as he extended his hand, and he meant it. “How have things been?”

“Oh, quiet, very very quiet. Ms. Cabrera was very kind to keep me on, and at my agreed upon pay and hours,” he said, opening the door so Benoit could come in. Benoit was eager to get to the mansion, but this was an excellent opportunity for additional information. He was torn, but ‘old habits’ won out. He stepped inside. 

“Ms. Cabrera is a very kind woman,” he agreed. “How long has she been staying here?”

“Oh, since before Christmas. She was very kind to invite me over for Christmas dinner with her mother and sister. Haven’t had one of those in a long time, been just me for as long as I can recall. Just a lovely evening, delicious food, and got to drink something nice made of rice? Had cinnamon in it. I mean, Mr. Thrombey would have thrown something stronger in it, but it’s the thought that counts. Gave me a lovely bonus to stay on too. I think she was worried I’d leave as soon as Mr. Thrombey was in the ground, but I told her, I said, ‘I was here before Mr. Thrombey and I’ll be here after him.’”

“Indeed. But she’s been all alone I hear? For how long?” Benoit asked. 

“Since January I think.” Mr. Proofroc scratched his head. “Keeps to herself, only Mr. Stevens and his paralegal have been around often. Once young Walt came around, there was a bit of a row, but he hasn’t been around since.”

“When was that?” Benoit asked, keeping his voice even. The thought of any of the Thrombeys bothering Marta unannounced rankled him.

“Oh, I’d have to check the logs...but at least a couple of weeks ago.”

He requested them, since the paper logs were far more reliable than the VCR tapes, and Mr. Proofroc obliged. Thank goodness the record of Walt’s visit to the house had happened during the day when Mr. Proofroc would have supposed it worth noting. Walt had been to the house not long before the article about the publishing company turn over had been published.

Benoit took note of that. 

“Mr. Proofroc--you have been here a very long time,” Benoit started, his voice soft. Two equals having an open conversation. 

Mr. Proofroc lit up. “Yes, sir, I have, wouldn’t have had it any other way!” he preened. 

“It is my understanding that in your earlier years you would live in this house, but around the time Mr. Thrombey took residence you were only required during regular working hours?” he reminded him. 

“Yes sir. Times change, but it did allow me to find some secondary income. And a much larger house for my cats, sir. Work life balance is very important,” Mr. Proofroc assured him. 

“It certainly is.” Benoit felt a smile quirk his lips. “But Mr. Thrombey was a renowned author. Was there every any difficulty with overeager enthusiasts?”

“Oh, never here! Mr. Thrombey was very careful with that!” Mr. Proofroc chuckled. “He had it all figured out when he bought this place, very clever of him. It’s under some sort of company barely related to him? I don’t remember how it works but if you tried to find where he lived you’d have to really know what to look for. I’ve never had an incident all these years.”

“That...is illuminating, and gratifying,” Benoit said. 

He exchanged some more pleasantries. He confirmed Mr. Proofroc worked the grounds from 8am to 4pm as agreed upon with Mr. Thrombey, and confirmed again by Marta. Walt’s visit was worrisome. 

He got back in the rental, and continued to the front of the mansion. It looked a little colder, a little lonelier. The thought of Marta there all alone did not sit well with him, and he’d put off his visit long enough.

Getting out of the car, he took in the vista before him once more. The stretch of the gentle valley below him blended stark dark grey trees and swells against the pale grey winter sky. The air felt like snow. Benoit pulled the lapels of his winter coat closer. 

“Mr...Benoit?”

He turned, and in the dark cavern of the front door porch stood the figure of Marta Cabrera.

“I heard a car pull up. You’re late,” she said. 

“Late?” he countered, adjusting his glasses and checking his watch. He was late by fifteen minutes. “My apologies. I try to arrive precisely when I mean to.”

And he walked up to the estate’s front entrance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to EVERYONE for your incredibly enthusiastic and kind comments! My apologies for not interacting/replying--right now things are so busy with work, I can either write this or respond to comments but I can't do both! But please know they mean the world to mean, and the only reason I've been getting an update out a day is because I wrote out a full outline of the story beforehand which I NEVER DO. This story is absolutely complete in outline form, so stay tuned! I've never been this slow burn, but I blame the donuts. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

She made a fresh pot of coffee as he made himself comfortable on a stool at the kitchen island. It was far too big for any convenience--Marta had to walk across the room to get some milk from the fridge. Benoit had jumped up to get it himself but she’d waved him to back down. “You just got here, don’t move,” she ordered him.

“Yes m’am,” came out like knee jerk. She glanced back at him like she was expecting a joke to follow. 

“I still can’t believe you came all this way,” she said, putting two mugs out. He recognized one of them: My House, My Rules, My Coffee. The other one declared “the book was better!” in flowery script. He took that one. 

He looked her over as she searched for spoons and the sugar. Her hair was braided over her shoulder, and she was wearing a long white cardigan over a thermal shirt and loose sweatpants. Maybe it was the oversized clothing to ward off the cold, but she looked smaller, thinner, paler than he remembered, and there were dark circles under those doe eyes. But when she glanced back at him there was a brightness to them. That did his heart good, but he sent out a silent thanks to Alice Cabrera’s call. Marta was drowning, that was obvious.

“I’m glad to see you,” she said, and there was a light shyness to the words as she kept her eyes on the slowly filling drip pot. 

He laughed. “It’s not often I hear that. Makes it worth the trip.”

The coffee done, she filled his cup first. “Come, come, pull up a chair,” he insisted, pulling out the other stool next to him as she started leaning against the counter. “There’s going to be plenty of time for standing around after social pleasantries.” 

She hesitated, but came around and sat down on the stool as he fixed his coffee, light and sweet just as he’d always liked it. She took a sip from her mug, the coffee as black as the pot it came from. 

“It’s a little chilly in here,” he noted. He’d left his coat hung up in the front hallway with his suitcase, and while it wasn’t uncomfortable it was noticeable. 

“Oh! I’m sorry, I can raise the thermostat if you’re cold,” she said, but before she could jump up, he caught her by the sleeve.

“It’s nothing that needs doing right now, a little bit of cold isn’t the end of the world,” he promised. 

She sat back down. “It seemed so wasteful to heat the whole house just for one person. I thought my eyes were going to pop when I saw the heating bill,” she confided. “I’ve got the heat on low just so the pipes won’t freeze.”

“It’s not the pipes I care about, it’s you,” he declared.

She rolled her eyes slightly, but with a smile. It was delightful. “That’s what sweaters are for.”

“I am far too Southern for a Massachusetts winter,” he grumbled. 

“But you can just add another layer! Unlike summer, where there’s only so much you can take off.”

She took a long sip of her coffee. There was some color coming back to her cheeks, which Benoit approved of. But there was no moment like the present. He decided it was time to start playing his hand.

“I know it’s not close to where you live, but it seems unpleasant to be in this great big house all alone,” he baited. 

She paused, and put the mug down on the counter as she turned away from him slightly. He’d struck a nerve. A part of him regretted it, but he was here for a reason. To keep an eye on her, even if she didn’t think she needed it.

“I don’t think I mentioned it,” she said, carefully. “But my family and I are actually looking for a new place to live.”

“Oh?” was all he offered. 

“It really isn’t something you should worry about,” she assured him, throwing her chin up to look him in the eye. The movement was soft, but the resolve in her brow was that of a queen’s.

No, no this wasn’t Marta Cabrera; believed guilty until proven innocent. This was Marta Cabrera; master of her little corner of the world, no questions asked.

He was starting to see what her sister meant by stubborn. Well. Two could play at that game. 

“Why? Is it something worrisome?” he evenly asked, and took a sip of his own coffee. It was a damn good cup of coffee. He took his glasses off, and looked back at her as he put the mug down. “Is it something that would worry me, Marta?”

“I didn’t want to HAVE to worry about it until all of this,” and she made a circling motion with her hand, “was settled. We can’t very well live in low income house now.” And there was a hard swallow. “And packing up and putting everything in storage was the easiest, quickest solution.”

He gave a short ‘hmm’, and waited. And waited. 

She took another sip of her coffee, and held his gaze with those hazel eyes. Usually, silence got to people. Made them want to fill it, made them desperate, especially if they were guilty, if they were hiding something. And besides, that hard swallow was suggestive. But no. Not this time. Not Marta. She took another sip of her coffee. 

Benoit Blanc did not get to his position in life by not recognizing when a retreat was in order. He tucked his cards back into the recesses of his mind, and clapped his hands together. 

“So! Let’s get started, shall we?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am literally going to try and post something every night until I'm done if it kills me. *dies*


	6. Chapter 6

The most effective alarm clock Benoit ever experienced was the sound of Marta coming down the stairs first thing in the morning. 

He’d had his pick of the rooms on the first and second floors. He went with the one Linda had called hers because of its proximity to the only stairs. Marta was sleeping on the upper floor–he suspected in Harlan’s bedroom–and it felt right to be as close to her as possible. 

Benoit could rouse himself in the early hours if needed, but given his rathers, he was a night owl. The first morning her descending footsteps rode him out of sleep on a rail, he fumbled for his watch on the nightstand. It took his eyes a moment to focus on the dial.

Six o’clock. And not the one he preferred. 

“Well. If that’s how it’ll be,” he’d mumbled to himself, and rolled out of bed. 

The second morning Marta had coffee ready by the time he’d made his ablutions, dressed for the day, and eased his way downstairs. “I’m so sorry, I tried to be quiet this time,” she said, worrying her bottom lip. The sun was just rising over the valley, and if he drank the coffee fast enough he might even have the presence of mind to enjoy the view. 

“No, no; if you’re up, I want to be up. Just keep that pot full and I’ll manage somehow,” he said, and he took the offered mug from her hand. His fingers brushed against the wool of her fingerless gloves. The temperature outside had dipped overnight, and while he had come prepared for winter, he had no interest in throwing layer upon layer to beat off the cold in the way Marta seemed content to. Finished with toughing it out, he’d beg for a crack at that thermostat at this point–not that Marta would make him beg. 

“You look rested,” he commented, and took a sip. The coffee was perfect–she’s already put milk and sugar in it, exactly how he liked it. 

“I’ve been sleeping better since you got here,” she said with a smile, and she looked ready to take on the day. 

She waited for him as he managed some toast with jam and butter, a second cup of coffee, and did the dishes. 

“After you,” he offered with a sweep of his arm as he threw in the dishtowel, and Marta only rolled her eyes slightly as she lead him to the next room

\---

Marta’s system was methodical, and he’d picked it up quickly. She’d been moving room by room, photographing furniture, larger items, and  tchotchke. She then uploaded the photos to a shared folder online for the Thrombey family to review. Anything they wanted got a red tag. Anything they didn’t want would go to the auction with a green tag. Exhaustive, but effective...IF the Thrombey family wasn’t dragging their feet.

She’d explained it all the first afternoon. “There was a lot they just said not to bother them with, thank goodness,” He’d glanced around–many of the items in some rooms were already green tagged. “Your timing was perfect,” she’d admitted, “The first auction pick up is this week. They’re going into storage so they can be properly assessed.” 

“And has the family been around to pick up anything?” he’d asked evenly. 

“No. They’re too  _ busy, _ ” Marta had said, and his head had perked at the tone in her voice. She sounded annoyed. 

No. More than annoyed. “I told them they have until the end of the month, or it’s going to the auction. I’m trying to do them a favor, but I want this to be OVER,” and the bark in her voice had been all bite. She shook her head, and looked at him. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you?” he’d said, cocking his head. 

“I’m letting them walk all over me,” she’d said, her shoulders drawing up as she scrolled through the photos on the camera. 

“Is that how you feel about it?” he’d asked. 

“I feel like I want to make sure they have nothing to hold over me,” she had said, her voice thin. 

“Marta–and I say this with all my respect,” he had begun, taking a step closer to her. She turned her head to look up at him, and he held her gaze for that shared breath like it was a dare. “Marta?”

“Yes?” she’d asked.

“Never become a psychic. You not much of a mindreader.”

She’d blinked, and a smile brighter than Christmas bloomed on her face as she laughed. His own eyes had crinkled with amusement behind his glasses. He only saw her smile once the last time he’d seen her. Smiling suited her. 

“I think you’re trying to be as fair as possible to a pack of brats while drawing a line in the sand,” he continued, coming back to a more serious tone. “They are grown adults–even if they don’t act like it–and you have made your boundary clear. So help me I will personally carry anything they don’t pick up by the appointed time to the curb myself.”

She shook her head. “It’s not going to come to that.”

“Pity. I might have enjoyed it.” 

\---

The second day found them tackling the great library, which she had been putting off. He could hardly blame her. With her nearly tragic demise in this very room, he hadn’t been keen on revisiting it himself. “You’ll be alright?” he asked her as they stood in the middle of the library to take it in. 

She’d been avoiding looking at the floor in front of the knife throne. She scuffed her shoe on the rug. “It’s alright. He’s not here. I’m fine,” she said, it seemed more to reassure herself. She looked up at him, and frowned. “Are you going to be alright?”

The question surprised him. He faltered in his reply.

“You looked unhappy, coming in here,” she explained. “You LOOK unhappy.”

He felt then the tension between his shoulders. He’d been steeling himself against the room without realizing it. He let out a breath. “It’s alright. Just bad thoughts about personal failures,” he admitted.

“Failures? But we got him,” she insisted. He gave a small smile at ‘we’. Yes. He couldn’t have done it without her. 

“Wouldn’t have been worth a hill of beans if—” and his face hardened as his voice trailed off. Lord, he couldn’t even say it, could he?

“Well. He didn’t. So there,” she finally said. There was a tug on his cardigan sleeve--he pulled out the hand buried in his pocket, and Marta cradled it in hers. She then deftly turned his hand over, and put the DSLR in his palm. 

“To hell with Ransom,” she said fiercely. “Come on. I’ll take things out and you take the pictures.”

\---

Trooper Wagner had pointed out the literary significance of each item in the library as they had prepared for questioning the family. Wagner hadn’t been able to help himself. Each piece of art, each displayed item had some sort of significance to a Harlan Thrombey book. These were pieces that would probably get a pretty penny in auction thanks to the allure of their deeper meaning. 

And the library was full of them. 

They tackled it together, and he found they worked well as a team. There were stretches of silence, but also moments of idle pleasantries. She relaxed as the morning went on, and the cold sunlight that poured through the windows caught the dust motes in the air, unmooring the room from reality. It did feel more like the backdrop in a work of fiction than an actual place. 

It was nearly noon by the time they got to the dollhouse. 

“Now I think I remember this one,” he said. “Something about...the dollhouse being a replica of the real house in the book and something was hidden in a secret compartment that also corresponded to a secret room in the house? My father had a few Thrombeys in his bookcases,” he explained when she just stared at him.

He leaned over to get a better look at the details inside the dollhouse. This was a proper dollhouse, professionally made, exquisitely detailed. 

“Harlan said he knew a woman once who recreated murder scenes in miniature to help train detectives. He said the Dollhouse book was inspired by her.”

“No, not Frances Glessner Lee--he knew THE Frances Glessner Lee?” he repeated, gobsmacked. “Do you know I once managed to sweet talk my way into the forensic seminar in Baltimore that still uses her Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death? They gave us a magnifying glass and a flashlight and ninety minutes.”

How many did you solve?”

“Oh, some of them are unsolvable.”

“What? But why?”

He turned back to the dollhouse. How funny. There was almost a bit of a narrative happening within it’s little walls. A depiction of spilled milk in the kitchen, tiny footsteps leading to a servants’ stairs, which lead to--

“Well, she’d based them on real case files. There’s a reason they are called Nutshells Studies of  _ Unexplained _ Deaths. Some were determined suicides. Some were murders. And some—”

“Were never solved,” she finished. “That sounds maddening.”

“I went in thinking I’d be able to piece them all together, find the solutions. Truth be told. I was younger, much cockier then, thinking I could best the Mother of F orensic Science.  If anything it was a reminder of one’s own limitations as an investigator. Marta,” and he turned his head. He hadn’t realized how close she had gotten to him to also look at the dollhouse. There were barely a few inches between their faces. “Do you have a thin, pointy thing on hand? A pencil, perhaps?” 

She blinked, and stuttering, patted down her pockets. It was then he noticed the pen she’d shoved in her half ponytail. “Ah, my pardon,” he said, and he reached up to gently pluck the pen out of her hair. She went still as he did. “I didn’t pull anything, did I?” he asked, concerned. 

She swallowed hard. “No.” And said nothing more. 

Odd, but he turned back to what had initially caught his eye. A small crack in the dollhouse’s attic room. He bothered it with the tip of the pen, and the floor wiggled. He pushed a little harder, and an entire panel of the attic floor popped up. 

Nestled in a small compartment was a passport sized external drive. 

“Now what the hell is that?” he wondered out loud.

“No.” And the catch in her voice made Benoit straighten up in alarm. “No, no, no,” Marta moaned, her face falling. “Harlan, you son of a  **bitch.** ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a period of my life I used my archaeology degree/job to justify taking a bunch of forensics classes, and in this house we stan Frances Glessner Lee.


	7. Chapter 7

“Harlan, you son of a  **bitch.** ”

“Well...now I don’t think that’s very fair to Wanetta,” he pointed out.

But Marta ignored his comment and plucked the external drive out of the secret compartment. She turned it over in her hands, looking at it. Her mouth narrowed as she pivoted and moved towards the front hallway. 

It caught Benoit a bit flat-footed, and he double-stepped to catch up with her. “Marta? Feel free to fill me in at any time about what all this is about.”

“The computer upstairs has a cord that will fit,” was her only explanation as she marched up the stairs. There was nothing more for Benoit to do than follow her. 

The hallway panel was wide open, and she continued up to the Harlan’s study. Benoit glanced over at the master bedroom before he climbed the usually hidden stairwell–the bed in there was not only made, it was immaculate. No one had slept in it for some time. 

The answer to his next question was in the study itself. Tucked in a corner was a small, slightly deflated air mattress piled high with blankets. In another corner was a large open suitcase which Marta was hastily shoving items into. Benoit averted his eyes in the only useful way he could see how, by he turning his back to turn on the little space heater by the door. 

“Sorry, I haven’t really been keeping things tidy up here,” she said as she kicked her suitcase closed.He turned back to face her, and noted her cheeks were turning pink. 

“No need to apologize,” he assured her, still not quite sure what was going on. “Have you been sleeping up here the whole time? This has got to be the coldest room in the house!”

“It’s fine once the heater’s been on for a bit. I know what you’re thinking—”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know what to tell you. I tried sleeping downstairs and I just felt like I didn’t belong, so once Mom and Alice were gone, I moved my things up here. It just feels...safe here. And I know that’s crazy.”

“Marta. I would never call you that,” he said, feeling it fiercely. “I might wonder what’s going on in that head of yours, but I would never call you crazy.”

She sat at the desk and booted up the computer. Benoit pulled over the trunk and sat down so he wouldn’t be lurking over her shoulder. She glanced over at him. “Sometimes I wish he would haunt this room. Then I’d be able to give him a piece of my MIND,” she muttered with the defiant air of one trying to make light of a situation. Benoit chuckled. 

The computer was password protected, but she logged in with a guest account. The external drive itself needed no password, and their contents were quickly apparent.

“Wait, my understanding was Harlan Thrombey didn’t have unfinished works,” Benoit said, and he could feel the picture around him sharpening. “Wasn’t it a matter of pride that he only worked on one story at a time until it was completely finished?”

A long, tortured sigh escaped Marta’s lips. “Harlan Thrombey was a fucking liar,” she said, and she let her head fall to the desk with a thump. She sat there with her forehead on the desk, the very picture of absolute, hopeless defeat. Unsure of what to say, Benoit reached out and placed his hand between her shoulders, rubbing the wool of her sweater with his thumb. 

“What does this mean?” he asked after a moment, still gently rubbing between her shoulders with his thumb. There was tension there, but he could feel it loosening just a smidge. 

“We need to go see Alan,” she finally said. 

\---

Alan Stevens’ law office was just off the town’s main street. It was a small affair, and only Alan and Sally the paralegal were in when Marta had called to ask if they could meet. From the tone of the conversation it appeared Alan had an open-door policy for Marta, and a half hour later after he’d given Marta a side hug and Benoit a strange look along with a handshake, they were sitting in front of his desk.

“Well. Shit,” was all Alan said when Marta explained the find. 

Marta had caught Benoit up in the car. Yes, Harlan had built a mystique around himself as not having unfinished works, but in reality, he had enough manuscripts in various stages of completion to seed an entirely new writer’s career. When he’d died he’d left behind the problem of paperwork, both physical and digital. Marta had all of his old notebooks, and the publishing company had been leaving her very long, very polite voice messages about how they would be very, very, VERY interested in acquiring those to preserve Harlan’s Legacy as a Writer.

The notebooks were one thing. What might live on the computer was another. Marta had assumed that problem had solved itself however, for even though Walter Thrombey was insistent that Marta had to give him his father’s computer, Harlan hadn’t left behind his password. Whatever files he had on the desktop were functionally lost. 

Except...now there was the problem of the external drive, and what was to be done with it.

“You’re sure he didn’t write it down anywhere?” she asked Alan, pleading with him. 

“It was only ever verbal, and even then, he only said it to me over drinks,” Alan said. 

“He only ever said it to me too,” she sighed. She was leaning heavily on the chair’s arm, cradling her temple with her fingertips. “But if he wanted all his unfinished work destroyed after he died, why didn’t he put it in his will?”

“Why did Harlan Thrombey ever do anything he did?” Alan said as he threw up his hands. That’s the goddamn mystery, and that’s exactly the way he liked it. Look, Marta,” he said, and Benoit had the distinct impression that this was a common conversation between them. “I liked Harlan. I worked for him for thirty years, right out of law school. Hell, I’d even call him a friend. But he could be a real bastard with these games of his. You never knew if he was testing you or playing a practical joke. There was a streak of chaos to him, and it was annoying as hell. Like the no filming rights thing. That was also all verbal, and I told him, time and time again, put it writing! But he was insistent that everyone knew that was his opinion, so everyone knew that if it didn’t have his blessing it was never going to happen. It was like he kept waiting for people to cross him, or fail him, or–”

“Like the golden apple thrown by Eris, he wanted to see what discord it would cause,” Benoit said.

“Exactly!” Alan said with a snap of his fingers and an emphatic point towards Benoit. “ Look, I’d appreciate that this doesn’t leave this office, but there’s a reason that family is the way it is and all roads lead to Harlan and nonsense like this,” he confessed. 

Marta sat back in her chair, looking defeated. Benoit wished he could reach out and take her hand, to offer some manner of comfort. “Why would he do this to me?” she sighed. “What the hell am I supposed to do now? If I destroy the drive and people find out, this is never going to end for me. But Walter seems convinced that I’m keeping these things from him already.”

Alan sat up. “Hey, they haven’t been—”

“No, not since you spoke to them.”

“You say the word and I can have a cease-and-desist in front of the lot of them before end of day.”

“No. That feels antagonistic. I don’t want this to become a fight. I just...I need time to think. About what to do.”

Alan appeared like he had an opinion on the matter, but he swallowed it instead. Benoit also felt like he had some Thoughts on the matter as well, but he held them back. It was not the time. He needed more information, and Marta hadn’t asked him for his opinion.

“Marta, I know Harlan may have told you what he wanted done, but as I always told him, oral wills aren’t worth the paper they’re written on. You have to do with Harlan’s legacy what you think is best.”

“No one’s going to care what I think is best,” she said with a roll of her head. 

“Well, it’s not up to them. Seriously. Just say the word. I’d give anything to throw the book at the Thrombeys. They pissed me off. None of them needed that inheritance. Linda’s doing just fine for herself, Walt’s wife comes from money, and he has enough connections in publishing if he can figure out what to do with them. Sure, Joni squandered it all, but she’s already reinventing herself, she’ll come out in the wash. Only Harlan’s mother, Ransom and Meg could be said to need it, but the trusts we set up for Meg’s schooling and Wanetta’s care will run themselves now, and...well. Less said about Ransom the better.”

“Thanks for taking care of those, Alan,” Marta said. “I really appreciated your advice.”

“Thank YOU for letting me finally set them up,” Alan replied. “I’d been trying to get Harlan to do the same for years to avoid the very situation that happened with Joni. But he just poo-poo’d it as too ‘impersonal’. I told him, ‘you’re a multi-millionaire, sorry, there’s too much of your money’s to be personal’. I think he wanted people to keep having to ask him. I think he thought it was a way to make sure they still needed him, even if it was just for his money.”

“I think he mistook caring for people with taking care of people,” she said, her voice soft and distant. “I really think for a long time, he thought money could solve everything.”

Alan threw his hands wide again. “I knew him thirty whole years, and you figured it out in what, only two?”

There wasn’t much conversation after that. Alan bid them farewell–he gave Benoit another strange look as they shook hands again–and Marta promised she would think about what to do next. 

He was still putting on his gloves as they exited onto the street. The sun had set during the chat with Alan which gave him some sense of the time. 

Marta was already at the car, hands shoved in her coat pockets, hunched and looking miserable. He walked to the driver’s side of the rental, keys in hand, but paused. Looking up, he could see the main street proper just up the block. The town seemed to take great pride in it, stringing cozy globe lights between the light poles and the glow was a siren’s call now that it was dark. He’d noted on the drive in it seemed to have many fine dining establishments all along the main drag. 

“Is something wrong?” she asked, drawing him out of his reverie. Lord, but her eyes looked even bigger framed by her bright scarf drawn up right under her chin.

“We never ate lunch,” he realized. “Come on. We’re getting dinner. You’re picking, and I’m buying.” And he started towards main street. 

“What? Benoit, you don’t...you don’t have to do that,” she protested, following him. “I mean, you’re right, we should eat something, but I can pay–”

“No, I insist. I have only two conditions,” he said, pivoting in his heel and stopping short. She was trying so hard to keep up with him, she crashed into him–he grabbed her elbows to steady her. She looked up at him, and this close he could see the cold had already turned her cheeks rosy red. 

Once she was steady he let her go but didn’t take a step back as he continued. “It has to be sit-down establishment, and you’re not allowed to look at the prices or fight me over the bill. Agreed?”

“Benoit–it really isn’t necessary,” she said weakly. 

“Marta, it would be my pleasure to take you out to dinner,” he promised, meaning every last word of it. 

And he could see the struggle on her face, and the very moment of capitulation. “I would like that,” she admitted with a blink.

It was like a weight off his shoulders, and he smiled at her. “And there we are,” he said, and he stepped to her side. A sudden urge overcame him, and he offered her his elbow. A foolish move, perhaps, but the afternoon had taken such a turn he found he didn’t much care how much of a fool he looked like if it made Marta laugh. Laughing suited her. She’d been laughing just that morning and he was damned if he couldn’t get her laughing again.

She looked at it, and then back up at him, her head cocked curiously. 

But then there was the slightest pressure of her gloved hand on the crook of his arm. He covered it gently with his other hand. 

“After you,” he assured her. And they made their way to Main Street. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for all your wonderful comments! I thought this fic was going to be a slow burn and then I looked up and was already 10K and I wasn't even halfway through my outline. This never happens to me. I just keep adding to it without meaning to. Whee?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted this on my phone while on the subway while on my way to a DND game in Brooklyn sooooo I may have to go back and edit typos when I get home later tonight. :|

The menu looked wonderful, but Benoit found himself struggling with the establishment’s conceit. 

“What is it with this part of Massachusetts and their insistence on spelling out their accent?” he grumbled. “I understand the appeal of the locally-sourced farm-to-table movement, but calling it ‘Fahm to Table’ feels a step too far.”

There was a snort. He looked up from his menu, and Marta’s hand was in front of her mouth. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just...your Boston accent,” she said, trying to hold back another one.

He raised his eyebrow. “Say no more,” he drawled. “Glad to be of some amusement.”

He refilled her water glass with the repurposed swing-top bottle the waiter had left behind. There was a mason jar with dried flowers against the wall, and between them a votive in another mason jar bravely did it’s part against the restaurant's abysmally low lighting. The shiplap around the dining area was a distressed white, and the waiters all wore suspenders. A few of them even well.

He’d left his glasses tucked in his coat pocket—they certainly made life easier, but he could get by without them—and pondered his approach. That Marta was drowning was obvious. That her life was in danger of extreme vexation was apparent. But she had made no real allusions to danger of a more physical sort, though his gut knew Marta was like the calm surface of the bayou—she kept untold peril hidden, and only a fool would think the water was fine. 

“Seems like just when everything starts sorting itself out in all this Thrombey nonsense, the rug gets pulled out from under you,” he casually said after the waiter took their order. He had his back to the wall, sitting sideways in the chairl to give his legs more space, one arm over the seat back, the other resting on the table. He turned his head so he could look at her. “I hope you don’t feel I am prying, but you said something in Alan’s office that gave me some concern. It seems to me you’ve been doing a marvelous job in regard to managing what to do with the estate. Now I can surmise, but I’d prefer if you told me plain—just how bad has it been?”

“You don’t have to worry about it,” she repeated.

“Now that’s the second time you’ve said that to me, Marta,” he pointed out. “Then I won’t worry about it. Sate my curiosity instead. Tell me what has really been going on.”

“Oh, so now you’re my confidant?” she said, her eyebrow quirking. 

“If you’ll have me,” he shot back. “Look, what about this? I just listen to whatever you feel comfortable saying, and if you’re not looking for any advice, I’ll just make reassuring noises at the appropriate moments, but keep my mouth shut otherwise. That sound like a deal?”

Conflicting emotions fell over her face, and he was getting used to seeing that struggle in her eyes when he started asking too many questions. It was like the majority of her thoughts, her opinions, her emotions had to be scrutinized within before she could make them know, and he sensed it came from a deeply unhappy place. It made him wish he was someone she could open up to as with the same ease as breathing air. He wished she could see him as a friend—he’d had so few people in his life who had filled that role, and some of them were no longer alive; but they had been godsends every last one of them. He’d been with her nearly three days, where were her friends? She was a young, kind woman—how was it she had no one calling her, checking in on her aside from a family she had temporarily pushed out of town and an estate lawyer? 

As he got caught in his own reverie, Marta came to her decision. 

The restaurant was hardly low on decibels, but she glanced around the dining area once before she leaned slightly over the table, lowering her voice. He leaned forward, mirroring her. He was sure they looked completely conspiratorial, but there was no accounting for that. 

“No one was really sure he would have unfinished work lying around, but everyone wanted it to be true. Walter, the publishing company, his fans. He’d tell everyone in interviews that he didn’t leave stories just lying around, that he always worked on one novel at a time from beginning to end which was a load of bullshit.”

The corner of Benoit’s mouth twitched, betraying the amusement he felt at her emphatic profanity. “How long have you known there were unfinished works lying around?” he asked.

“Not long after I started working for him. He’d start them on his computer, and every couple of months move them onto the external drive. He’d then hide it. He never told me where he hide it though, he said that would ruin all the fun and that he needed some secrets. So when everyone realized no one had the password to his computer, and it seemed like I was the only one who knew that the drive existed but I didn’t know where it was—”

“You figured the problem had already been solved,” Benoit deduced. “No point in confirming unfinished works existed if they couldn’t be found.”

The sudden silence from Marta filled seemed to dampen the noise around them. 

“You know what happens when I try to lie,” she said, utterly miserable. 

“...so who knows there are unfinished works?” Benoit asked, the realization coming over him. 

“Walt. And I’m pretty sure he let the publishing company know. I’ve been getting emails from them about how important it is to preserve ‘the full legacy of Harlan Thrombey’. I think he’s hoping if he can get them to fight me on it, he can get his hands on them still. I told him I didn’t know where they were hidden and that it didn’t matter even if I did find them, Harlan had been clear about what he wanted done with them—”

“He wasn’t happy about that.” 

“I won’t be able to lie to him. To any of them,” she insisted. “If anyone of them asks me if I’ve found the files, they’ll know, and it will be awful.”

“Then destroy it,” Benoit said. “Oh. My apologies. No advice, just listening,” he backtracked. 

“I don’t feel like I can. I feel trapped,” she confessed. “It’s not just the unfinished work. There’s boxes and boxes of letters and journals and photos and it’s all been left to me. I feel obligated to Harlan’s memory. His legacy. If I just hand it over for someone else to take care of, if I destroy the drive, delete everything, aren’t I betraying that? But how could he do this to me? He regretted making Walt responsible for his work, his company, and then he turns around and does the same to me? Benoit. I do want your advice. What am I supposed to do?”

Benoit offered her his hand, hoping it might comfort her. She hesitated, and put her hand in his. 

“That Harlan Thrombey thought incredibly highly of you is no mystery,” he began. “But I think we must suppose he did not think this whole thing through. That bequeathing everything to you, the responsibility that would come with it, might be a burden instead of a blessing. He may have thought you more than anyone else could handle it, but that doesn’t make what he did fair to you. And if he was a man with any sense, if he cared for you even a bit, he wouldn’t have wanted you throwing your life away on a dead man.”

Marta’s eyes looked away from his gaze, but she held onto his hand, her grip tightening. He covered her hand with his, cradling it like something precious. She rubbed her eye with the heel of her free hand. “I think there was a lot he just didn’t foresee. I think he saw it all unfolding like the ending to one of his books, instead of looking at what might come next. I’m pretty sure he had no idea Jacob would dox my home—”

Bingo—the Nazi Child, Benoit thought, the revelation like ice cold water in a Lousiana August.

“He did what now?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’ve been saving screenshots, but I can’t prove it was him. It’s just an instinct. Something he said. Look, we were actually going to have to move anyway, I just hoped I’d have time. But then we started getting all these phone calls on the land line and letters. I locked my Facebook, deleted everything else. Instagram. That stupid dating app my sister made me set up a profile for,” she scoffed. “The lawyer that helped with mom’s status, they walked me through how to protect our emails, our cell phones.”

“And then you moved into the estate,” he said. “And there’s been no problems since?”

“Harlan was paranoid about his address, and Jacob won’t dox his own grandfather’s house. He’s the worst, but he’s not going to risk something he thinks of as still belonging to the family.”

“Why not go to the police?” he finally asked, at long last. “Start a report?” 

It was the shrug that surprised him. “And what will that do?” she said. “It’s hard enough getting help from the police with things are that physical and real, what are they supposed to do when it’s all on the internet? They’ll tell me to ignore it, just like that time it happened to Alice’s friend. No, I’m just going to lie low until this blows over, and then find us a new place to live. Someplace safe. In a city. With a lot of other people around 24/7,” she said, and though her voice was light, she was still holding his hand like someone desperate for an anchor. 

“I know there are a lot of departments in this country that have done a lot of people, a lot of women, a disservice when it comes to harassment like this. But you could file it with Detective Elliott’s department. The estate’s your primary residence, though it’s just for the moment. And I can promise you he would never dismiss your concerns.”

The waiter interrupted her reply with the delivery of their dinner. Marta let go of his hand and straightened in her seat. Benoit leaned back, biting back a grunt of annoyance, hoping the advice had reached her ears and more so, had stuck.

They started eating in silence, and Benoit felt disappointed at that. He’d said his piece, but he had wanted to lighten her load not add to it. 

She took a couple of bites of her food. “I just want everything to go back to normal for my mom and sister,” she said suddenly. 

He swallowed his food before he responded. “Don’t forget about yourself,” he reminded her gently.

She glanced up at him. “Mom always says I’m too quick to think about everyone else first.”

“Well, that’s alright,” he said, a fond smile crossing his face. “That’s why I’m here.”

She turned back to her food, and he did the same. It was a few moments of silence when she piped up again. “Maybe I’ll call Detective Elliott once everything gets picked up this week, once I get one thing off my plate.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” he offered, and the relief made him feel giddy. 

\---

He insisted she get a dessert. She insisted on sharing one. Which was how they found themselves splitting a fruit cobbler with vanilla bean ice cream when the thought came to him.

“The trust fund for Wanetta’s care was kind of you. I’m just surprised you had to set one up,” he said.

“It’s for an live-in nursing service I once worked for. I know the people they hire, I trust them, but it’s not cheap. Linda refuses to put her in a home, and I respect that. But I didn’t want anyone who is taking care of Wanetta thinking their pay or future recommendations depended on her opinion,” she said, taking a stab at the ice cream. “They report to me.”

“And Meg?”

Marta tapped the plate with her spoon in thought. “I don’t hate Meg. I just don’t want to see her again any time soon. I told Roz—the lawyer that helped with mom—about what Meg did and they lost it. Completely. They kind of put things in perspective. I trusted her with something that could have broken my family, and she failed. I forgive her, but...I don’t think I’ll be able to trust her again. That doesn’t mean I want to screw her over. Creating an irrevocable trust for her education means I get to wash my hands of her completely. One less thing to worry about,” she shrugged.

“You have a funny way of twisting the knife, Marta,” he said. There was a bite left of the cobbler. He put his spoon down, leaving it for her. “You’ll kill this family with kindness yet.” 

“Oh no, I’m afraid I’m retired from murder,” she blithefully said. “I have it on excellent authority I’m terrible at it.” She pushed the last piece of cobbler towards him with a smile. “Go on,” she told him. “You earned it.”

“How so?” 

“You give pretty good advice.”

\---

When they got back to Two Deerborn Drive, Benoit sent her inside, telling her he just needed to get some air. He made his way to the side porch, and a motion sense light triggered as he walked up the steps.

He sent a quick text to Alice Cabrera with the update that Marta was likely to go to the police now, and if she’d like a call just to ask. Alice sent back a series of emojis, he assumed they meant she was pleased by the update. 

He took out a cigar from his inner coat pocket, and lit it as he took a seat on a bench. He was getting close to what he’d hoped to accomplish while here, but there was still something missing from the picture. Why did it feel like something he was trying to avoid…?

“That’s not air. That’s the opposite of air.”

He turned in his seat, and Marta was standing by the door, still in her coat but with two mugs in her hand. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Smoking. You said you were coming out here for air. That might as well be the opposite of it,” she replied as she came closer.

“If you don’t approve I can just—” and he leaned forward to snuff it on the patio brick. 

She was next to him by the time he leaned back, and tucked the offending cigar away. “Good—smoking’s bad for you,” she scolded, but there was a fond look on her face as she handed him a mug. It was pleasantly hot in his gloved hand, and a sniff confirmed it was tea. 

She stood for a heartbeat before asking, “is it alright if I—”

“Oh, oh of course!” he said, and he made room for her on the bench. She sat down, and cupped her own mug with her gloved hands. 

They sat in silence for a bit, but it was comfortable, companionable. Sure it was still bitter cold, but without so much as a breeze it was just on the right side of tolerable, and he said as much. 

Marta gave him a look. “You were the one complaining about the house being too cold, and now you’re sitting out here like it doesn’t matter,” she teased.

“It’ll make the house feel that much warmer when I go back inside,” he declared.

“That’s not how it works,” she countered.

“No. No it’s not,” he conceded. “We could get a fire going.”

“Maybe tomorrow night. I’m exhausted,” and she yawned as if to prove her point. 

“Don’t stay out here on account of me,” he insisted.

“But it’s nice out here,” she said. 

“No it’s not.”

“The company is nice,” she corrected. 

“Some might say that was a matter of opinion, but I appreciate it,” he joked. 

“I’m glad I accepted your help. It’s always been hard for me to accept help,” she admitted. 

“Now why’s that?” 

It took her a moment to answer. 

“I grew up knowing that if people could tell I was lying I could lose my mother,” she began, and the starkness of her voice made him still in his seat. “I would lie awake as a kid praying to every last saint I could think of to make me a good liar and instead I just got so twisted up from the anxiety of it the opposite happened. It’s hard to ask for help when calling the police means your mom might get deported. It’s hard to take risks on people when you can’t afford to get in trouble. Ever since I was little, my world just worked differently than the way it’s supposed to. So I didn’t really make friends because I didn’t want to have to lie to them, I didn’t take risks because it never seemed worth it, and the next thing I know I’m almost thirty-four years old with no friends and no one I can turn to and with the world’s worst party trick. Look I don’t know why you called, but...thank you.”

The weight of not being entirely truthful with her dropped on him like an Acme anvil. “Look, Marta—” he began, about to tell her about Alice’s call.

“Hey, I’ve got something for you,” she interrupted, and from the inside of her coat she handed him something. “See what you make of this, detective.”

“Private investigator,” he corrected her, and he took off his glasses to get a closer look. 

“Harlan has so many albums and boxes of old photos but this one I found in his study and it caught my eye. He just looked so familiar at first glance—”

“Good lord. Would you look at that,” Benoit breathed, honestly surprised. He turned it over, hoping for a date, and found not only that, but a location: New Orleans. “Good lord, this was taken before I was a—well, before I was born. He must’ve been in in late twenties at the time.”

“You mentioned your father knew Harlan,” she explained. 

And in the photo was Harlan Thrombey and Benoit’s father, both in their prime, jackets slung over their shoulders and sleeves rolled up, and he could almost feel the muggy air you could cut with a knife through the black and white print.

“I thought you might like it, she said, soft and sweet. “I was going to mail it to you but then you called, so I thought, I’ll give it to you myself. Found a frame yesterday that it’ll fit in, so don’t leave without it.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” and he tucked the photo within his inner coat pocket where he knew it would be safe. He looked back at her. “That was awfully thoughtful of you, remembering that and giving me this.”

“Benoit—” she exhaled, and she put her mug down on the bench. “I—”

and the light on the porch went out. 

It startled Benoit—he had forgotten the light was motion sensitive. They’d been sitting out here for too long.

“I haven’t had the porch lights flashed on me in a long time,” he joked, now unable to see much of anything. “I guess we’d better get inside.”

They fumbled about in the dark until the light was triggered again, and he followed her back into the house. 


	9. Chapter 9

Benoit put the groceries on the counter, and his mind wandered.

The moving company Alan had recommended had made quick work of the items approved for the fundraising auction. They specialized in antiques and art, and came in like a well-oiled tornado. Benoit and Marta had found it best to keep out of their way as the team wrapped and crated the green ticketed items. They then followed the truck to the storage units and Marta signed off with obvious pleasure. 

They’d stopped to pick up some packing supplies to start boxing up anything the family had finally agreed to take, which was were he saw it. Another damn interview with Walter Thrombey, and this one in Time Magazine. Benoit held back a bit to give the article a read while Marta stood in line to pay. 

The shake-up at Blood Like Wine was the publishing equivalent of the Romanovs getting grabbed by Bolsheviks, and the industry wanted to see the bodies. This time they got them in spades–Walt had confirmed unequivocally that he believed Harlan had left unfinished works behind. 

‘ _ It’s not about the money, _ ’ he’d had the gall to lie in print. ‘ _ The books are my father’s legacy. I want to see them through. I want to curate them, make sure they get the recognition they need. Even his papers, his journals, she has them all in her possession, and I know she means well, I’m sure she’ll do what’s right, but I’m anxious from waiting. Look, my father liked to keep himself inscrutable, he liked being a mystery. Well, to use a phrase he always did, I want to peel back the curtain a little bit. For the fans, of course, but for me as well. It’s hard being in limbo, hard to wait, to put my own grief on hold–”  _

“What a snake in the grass,” he’d muttered, tossing the magazine back on the rack. Looking up, he was surprised to find some fellow trying to chat up Marta in line. 

“–come on, I told you mine, it’s only fair.”

“Marta,” she said, with the kind of tight-lipped smile of someone wanting an interaction to be over. 

“Let me guess, you’re super boring, right?” the man tried to tease. There was an intense quality to him that set Benoit’s teeth on edge, and from the look on Marta’s face, he wasn’t the only one. 

“Yep, that’s me. Completely boring,” she said. Everything in her body language screamed the conversation was over, and Mister College-Sweatshirt-Dark-Jeans was ignoring it. 

“Want some help with that? Maybe I take you into Boston, show you a thing or two–I bet you’d be so hot with like, some makeup and a dress–”

Benoit pulled air through his teeth like a grandmother getting her side dish critiqued by a rival at a Sunday potluck. That was quite enough. 

“Excuse me,” he said, good and firm in the man’s ear and when the man startled he pushed his way around to stand by Marta. 

“Sorry, got distracted–y’all good?” he asked, his back to the man.

“Just paid–could you get the bags please?” she asked, the carefully blank look on her face melting away to something far more genuine. “Have a nice day!” she told the man with the kind of forced cheerfulness that was really saying ‘fuck you’, and Benoit was careful not to look back at him. The smirk he knew was on his face felt unsporting.

“That happen often to you?” Benoit asked as they made their way back to her car. “I see,” he said as she shot him a withering stare over the top of her car. 

“For a moment I thought he recognized me from the news,” she sighed as she put on her seatbelt. “I’m going to become paranoid before this is all over.”

A visit to Elliott to discuss her options and to file a report was next. Sure, Elliott had to admit that cyber harassment was difficult to do much about, but he was still a good detective, and Benoit trusted the report wouldn’t be gathering dust if there was something that could be done. By the end of the meeting it was apparent another weight had been taken off of Marta’s shoulders. It did not solve the problem, but it was a start, and Benoit was relieved to see through the one thing Alice had hoped he’d accomplish. 

On the drive back it had been Benoit’s request to stop at a supermarket. They’d been making due with things that came in boxes with instructions on the back, but he took some pride on that he knew what end of a wooden spoon to hold, and he was confident he could cook up a proper home-cooked meal for Marta. 

He found himself particularly picky at the store, double checking with Marta that each ingredient was to her liking. He didn’t want to make her anything that she’d only eat to be polite. “I mean it, I’ll eat anything,” he insisted. “I don’t mind if you’d prefer I made something else.”

“That makes two of us,” she promised. “Whatever you make will be delicious.”

“Thank you for indulging me,” he said with some depreciation as he finally decided which baguette was better. 

“You’re very particular,” she said, and he didn’t get the sense that she saw that as a bad thing.

“Well, my pride’s on the line, I have to make sure it’s perfect,” and he was only half-joking.

Yes, things were wrapping up nicely, he supposed as he took the groceries out in preparation. But still, the sense of some great unfinished thing whispered ‘stay’. He wished he could get to the bottom of why that was. He was starting to worry he’d overstay his welcome, though of course Marta had implied nothing of the sort. 

As if she would have. 

“Damn,” Benoit sighed, coming back to his senses. 

“Something wrong?” Marta asked, grabbing some water from the fridge. She’d just gotten off the phone, having taken a moment to call her mother and then her sister. Benoit had an ear for Spanish even if he couldn’t speak it worth a damn, and some bits of the conversation had floated over from the other room. It sounded like Mrs. Cabrera was having a fine time with the family but was eager to get back home to her daughter. Once her mother returned, there really would be no reason for Benoit to hang about. 

“I completely forgot to pick up some wine to add to the sauce,” he sighed, “I’ll have to run back out.”

“Just grab it from the wine cellar,” she said like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“...the what now?” 

—

“I confess to feeling a little foolish it did not occur to me that Harlan Thrombey would have a wine cellar,” he grumbled as they descended down a flight of stairs just off the kitchen. Like most things in the house, it had been cleverly hidden behind a panel just past the pantry.

“Your secret is safe with me,” she teased as she turned on the light. 

“It didn’t come up in our inquiries, you know,” he said. 

“Why should it?” 

“I don’t appreciate being humored,” he groused, and her smile widened. 

“Good thing that’s not what’s happening then,” and she had the audacity to give him a little wink. “Go on, grab whatever you need.” 

It was a reasonably sized room, a good temperature and well lit. He glanced at the spread before him, and one thing became apparent to him immediately. He gave a low whistle. “There are some truly expensive bottles down here,” he commented. “I just needed a cooking white. Anything I pick is going to make me feel guilty.” His eye caught the year on a particular bottle. “Oh now that’s just a waste.”

“What is?”

He picked up the bottle of champagne. “It’s a vintage, but it’s 10 years old. It might not be good anymore, that’s about the tail end of it’s shelf life,” he pointed out. “Wonder what he was saving it for. He didn’t seem like the sort of man to wait for an excuse to open a bottle of bubbly.”

“He wasn’t. Wait, I thought wine got better with age,” she said, sidling up to him to get a better look. 

“That is tragically not the case for the majority of things; though I’d like to hope I’m the exception to the rule,” he deadpanned. 

She gave his arm a light smack. He feigned greater injury.

“Madam, you wound me,” he vamped.

“Stop that, you’re not old,” she scolded.

“Hmm. Tell that to my eyesight,” he huffed. “You know, this reminds me of this one time my father received a bottle of champagne for some case he’d managed to get cleared up. My mother wouldn’t dare let him open it, she insisted we had to save it for a special occasion. It was years before any such occasion of the correct gravitas came up, but by then the damn thing had corked–it was completely undrinkable. Talk about a life lesson on the risk of waiting too long,” he sighed, and moved to put it back.

“No.”

He paused, and looked down at Marta. What a strange look on her face; he’d spent almost a whole week in her presence and what he wouldn’t give to be able to read her mind. She reached and plucked the bottle from his hand. 

“We’re opening this,” she declared. “We’ve been working hard and we’re celebrating tonight.” 

“That so?” he said, and he was pleased as punch at her resolve.

“I’m not on the clock. I can drink all the damn champagne I want,” she declared, waving the bottle around slightly.

He reached out to still her arm. “Leave it to me,” he said, taking the bottle back. He took his chances on a sauvignon blanc for the sauce, and was about to declare himself ready to go when his eyes fell on something that almost made his jaw drop. 

“Marta? Do you have any idea how much money that bottle of Scotch is?” he began.

“...how much does it cost?”

“No idea, but it is definitely outside the realm of my budget,” he admitted. 

Marta picked up the bottle, looked it over, and tucked it under her arm. “What? It’s mine, isn’t it? I’ll do as I please with it,” she said, her eyes daring him to protest. “Looks like I’m trying Scotch tonight.”

“Your first time? Lord, and to have it be on a bottle like that!” 

“Harlan always offered, but I was always on the clock. I had to keep reminding him I was still his nurse.”

“A consummate professional.”

“Wasn’t a risk I could take,” she corrected him. “Perception is easy to tarnish, hard to fix; a glass in your hand to make people assume the worst.”

“Well, you know what they say about people who make assumptions,” he pointed out as they made their way back up the stairs. 

—-

“No. You didn’t.”

Her laughter was bright and filled the room, even as the look on her face was mortified.

“I did. I was fourteen and I thought he was the most perfect boy in the world and when he got a scholarship to a boarding school and he said he wanted to be pen pals, I was so hopeful–and then the first letter he writes me it’s about how much he was in love with  _ Becky Hurtado _ and how he needed my advice because I was a girl and I did,” she cried through the laughter. “He broke my heart and I gave him ADVICE!”

“You are entirely too good for your own good,” Benoit chuckled as he refilled her glass. Their dishes laid abandoned on the coffee table as they sat on the couch, champagne bottle long since emptied, and Scotch opened and on hand as they rested in front of the fire. “Well? Did it work? Your advice?”

She gave him a withering stare. “They got  _ married _ .”

And he laughed at that, long and hard. 

“Don’t laugh, it’s tragic,” she tried to pout, but her continued giggles got in the way. She took another sip of the Scotch, and made a face. 

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it,” he promised. 

“It’s...interesting. I’m not sure it’s exactly enjoyable,” she admitted.

“It can be an acquired taste.”

“Then I have not yet acquired it. Here, you take it,” she said, motioning him to bring his glass closer. He obliged, and she carefully poured the amber liquid in her glass into his. 

“Can’t let it go to waste,” he agreed.

Marta grabbed the plates, and sushed his protests. “Don’t you dare, you cooked. Sit. Relax.”

He held up his free hand in surrender, and she bustled the plates to the kitchen. Benoit sat with his thoughts, warm and content before the fire. 

“Hmm–fellow could get used to this,” he mused. 

––

Marta had come back with the leftover bottle of sauv blanc and fresh glass for herself, and they watched a movie. Well, tried too. He found they talked through most of it instead. 

“Have you ever gone places?” she asked, leaning her head against the couch, hugging a throw pillow. “Just because?”

“Honestly only travel I’ve done has been for work. I suppose I should get on that. Go places just because,” he said, resting his arm on the back of the couch. 

“I’d like to. There’s a lot of places I’d like to go, once I don’t have to worry about things.”

“Marta, I hate to be the bearer of ill tidings, but I’m afraid you will always be able to find something to worry about in this world. If you want my advice–”

“Yes, always,” she said with a slow, sleepy smile.

“People are going to tell you you’re young, you’ll have time. But you do as you wish, you hear? Don’t wait.”

“But waiting’s the easy part,” she said, closing her eyes. 

“Marta. You can’t possibly be leaving me to watch the rest of this movie all by myself,” he said.

“You weren’t even watching it.”

“Well, no lie there. Where’s that–ah,” and he leaned over her just enough to grab the remote. He couldn’t figure if it turned off the entire system, but it turned off the screen, which was good enough for government work. He looked back down at her, and she lifted her head slightly, eyes soft and dark in the remaining glow of the fireplace’s embers and the lamp he had turned on over his shoulder 

“Marta, did you know you get the most delightful flush when you’ve been drinking,” Benoit realized. He’d meant to make a comment about how it was time for bed, but found himself staring at her face instead. She looked so happy, so comfortable, so content. He reached out his hand. “Why,” he continued, his voice low, “it stretches from the apples of your cheeks right to the tips of your ears.” And he found himself tracing the curve of her ear, tucking some wild strains back in their place. She leaned into the touch. 

The moment came into focus then, iridescent and disorienting like the rainbow kaleidoscope at the bottom of a crystal whiskey tumbler. It went to his head faster than the Scotch had, while making his stomach drop. 

He was in love with her. 

He’d fallen in love her months ago, the moment she handed him the toxicology report regardless of what she was sure it meant in that moment. He came because he was worried about her, and he was worried about her because he was in love with her. 

Oh no. No it would never do. Marta trusted him, relied on him. If she could hear the thoughts that flooded his mind now, the images of how it would be nothing, take nothing, to just lean a little closer and take her mouth with his. A traitor part of his brain wondered if she would crawl into his lap if he gave a little tug– 

He could feel the look on his face change as his wretched, personal truth almost seemed to mock him. He’d come up here to help as a friend? A gentleman coming to a young lady’s aid at a sister’s bequest? He was an old, damn fool. How could he have pulled the wool over his own eyes so securely? How could he sully her emotional intimacy with his desire? How could he do that to her?

He’d always taken pride in never being that kind of man; and here he was, pride long out the window, knowing full well that actions done in ignorance could still harm. 

He sat back, heart pounding. 

It was like a spell had been broken–she sat upright, covering her burning cheeks with her hands. “We need water,” she muttered, and jumped up for the kitchen. 

“I should be going to bed anyway,” he covered, and somehow his voice didn’t tremble. He made fast work of closing up the front of the fireplace so the embers could cool down safely. 

Perhaps it was a coward’s retreat. He tried to think of it as more of a necessary move to get himself under control. To give her some space. 

A good twenty minutes passed as his mind’s eye reminded him of what she had looked like curled up on the couch when he finally heard her footsteps on the stairs. He felt drawn to his bedroom door.

She paused in the hallway right outside. The thought came over him–what if he opened his door right then, what if she  _ knocked– _

A long breathe in a silent house, and the stair’s cacophony picked up again as she continued her way to the loft room. 

He stayed up a good part of the night, he could tell you what. 


	10. Chapter 10

Benoit was not a man who gave two figs about how he was perceived when it came to his professional life. He knew he was peculiar, the way in which his mind perceived Truth perhaps laughable to skeptics, but he knew what he was capable of and he knew his methods achieved results. 

No, if he were being honest, he reserved all of his doubts for his personal life, always had. The reality was Benoit Blanc–for reasons ranging from sincere disinterest to simple misunderstanding to accidental ignorance–could count on a hand that had a run in with an illegal Fourth of July firecracker just how many women he had been in a romantic relationship with. It was sometime around his late thirties he figured there was no harm in being one of Nature’s Bachelors–on the whole it seemed to suit him just fine, and he was quite content with the friendships he had made with ladies along the way. 

So getting sideswiped by his affections for Marta the night before was embarrassing to say the least. The next morning, bleary eyed from the precious few dreamless hours he was able to wrestle from his racking guilt, he resolved himself to absolute perfect propriety. He could allow for no chance that Marta might sense his attraction to her and doubt his sincere intentions to help.

Of course, that didn’t change the fact that it took him a moment to screw up the courage to go downstairs. 

It wasn’t until he reached the dark kitchen that he realized Marta hadn’t come down the stairs yet. Chastened, he got a pot of coffee started. Lord, he could feel it, that there wasn’t much more for him to do here, not much more reason to stay. He was going to have to leave soon, get back on with his life, regardless of how much he wanted to stay close to wherever she was. Selfishly, he hoped she might keep in touch. Maybe he could convince her to–

A mocking huff of air left his mouth. Convince her to come visit him? Lord, it was worse than he thought. How he hadn’t been completely obvious up to this point completely eluded him. 

He poured himself a cup of coffee, and felt entirely, impossibly old. 

“Oh thank God, coffee.”

He turned, and Marta had beelined for the dishwasher to grab her mug. She had a duster wrapped tight around her, and she hadn’t even brushed her hair yet. She looked as bleary as he felt. 

“Trouble sleeping?” he asked.

“I don’t know how my sister does it,” she said instead, pouring herself a cup. “Is it because I’m on the other side of thirty? Is because she has practice?”

“Are...are you hungover?” he realized. 

The look she gave him over the rim of her mug said it all. 

“Marta, I hope–”

“I didn’t do anything too embarrassing last night, did I?” she said at the same time, and he did a double-take.

“...What?”

“I definitely drank too much last night, I hope I didn’t say or do anything embarrassing,” she said, carefully focused on the marble countertop. 

“Marta, all you did was nearly fall asleep during the movie!” he promised. 

“Oh,” she glanced up at him. “That’s a relief. Ugh. I need some aspirin.”

And she padded back upstairs before he could get a word in edgewise. 

–

The weather forecast breathlessly anticipated snow, but all Benoit had to do was take a look outside to tell you that. The clouds all day had only gotten grayer and angier, and by the time dusk had come around, he was sure he could see the ghost of flurries in the air. 

Marta was still on the phone with another real estate agent, trying to find someone willing to take on trying to sell the estate. Turned out in this part of Massachesetts a lot of folks who not only knew Linda Drysdale (though it seemed she was returning to her maiden name as soon as the paperwork cleared) but were obliged to her in some manner, and there were many polite regrets and regards once Marta revealed the estate’s history. Marta had been on the phone since the mid afternoon, and she looked about ready to tear her hair out. 

There had been a plan for them both to run out for more supplies, but with flurries in the air, Benoit was loath to hold it off any longer. 

“Marta?” he whispered, waving for her attention. 

She asked the woman on the line if she minded holding a moment, and looked at him expectantly.

“I’m going to run those errands before it gets any later. I’ve got the list but I can’t find my keys, you seen them anywhere?”

Without a word she made her way to the front closet, and rooted around her coat pockets. Turning, she tossed something at him, and he had the wherewithal to catch them. “I haven’t but just take my car,” she told him. “Yes, look, I understand you have concerns but–” and she wandered back towards the parlor to continue her extraordinarily polite fight with the current agent. 

Benoit did not enjoy driving on the whole. Behind the wheel his mind wasn’t allowed to wander as free as he needed. Though he’d picked up a rental from the airport, mostly Marta had been driving when they headed anywhere together. She was still driving the same blue subcompact, and he tried to remember how close her seat was to the wheel before he pushed it back to accommodate his much longer legs. Same papers in the back seat, same box of junk in the trunk, and same rosary hanging on the rearview mirror he had to adjust. 

He found it endearing. 

He plugged in his iPod–Marta had only voiced some surprise that he still had an entirely separate device for playing music–and put what he thought of as his Calming Playlist on. True, it was practically all Broadway show tunes, but sometimes a person just needed to belt out a couple of songs in the safe space of a vehicle. 

He turned onto the main road accompanied by some Sondheim, but it wasn’t long after that car lights appeared behind him. 

What was it about long dark stretches of empty road that made another car feel so unsettling? Benoit was a city boy, and there was nothing more uncanny to him than the sudden reminder that you were no longer alone precisely when you were certain of it. And he’d noticed while driving around with Marta that this road seemed to have a particular problem with people speeding. He was sure it was the isolation of it–nothing like an open road to make someone disregard a speed limit. Why, twice while driving they had found the same car getting far far too close to them while on their way home. Marta had even slowed down to allow them a chance to pass her if they were so eager to get going, but they had only slowed down in turn. “Just go around, Mass-hole,” she’d even muttered, but the car just sat on their tails until they turned on Deerborn Drive. 

Well, Benoit was in no mood to speed up to appease the driver coming up behind him. He turned his eyes back on the road. 

Later on, it was the rosary on the rear view mirror flying around that stuck in his memory. Everything else seemed to move so slowly–the sudden force of being rammed from behind, the struggle to keep from fishtailing, the second strike that did drive him off the road, the drop into the ditch and the tree that seemed to come out of nowhere–

He blinked back to awareness, lap covered in deflated airbag and seatbelt digging painfully into his shoulder and hips. He fumbled for the car light and miraculously it worked. His glasses had gone flying off somewhere, but he could see the crumpled hood of the car wrapped around a tree. 

Strange, how disconnected he felt from his limbs in the moment. He could still move them, and braced his legs so he could unbuckle his seatbelt without lurching forward. It was then a stabbing pain from his left shoulder struck him, punching the air from his lungs. He struggled to open the door with his right hand, and had to take a take a moment to prepare himself for the pain before he could force the door open, and stagger out of the car. 

He steadied himself on the car door; moving made his eyesight fuzzy around the edges and the pain made his stomach turn. He curled his left arm up protectively, as he blindly searched his coat pockets with his other hand–luckily his phone was still in his inner coat pocket, and he took it out.

He dialed the first number that came to mind, but Marta didn’t pick up. It was then he looked up. 

Back on the road, he just caught sight of a figure getting back into a car with one light was out, the corner crumpled. He could make out the make of the car, a black SUV, but he couldn’t see the plates in the glare. 

The certainty that he had seen that car before washed over him. Those times that ‘mass-hole’ had followed them so closely, both times it had also been a black SUV. And Benoit knew without a doubt the driver had purposefully driven him off the road. 

He tried to yell out to order the driver to stop, but the pain stole the breath from him again. He leaned against Marta’s car again to steady himself, and the black SUV sped away. Marta’s car–

Each time they had been driving in Marta’s car. 

Benoit’s phone rang in his hand and he answered it blindly. 

“Sorry I missed your call! But I have good news,” Marta said, laughing. He could hear the jingle of keys close to the microphone. “I found them!”

“Marta,” he gasped. “Now don't be alarmed, but I do believe someone just tried to kill me thinking I was you.”

For a moment he thought they had been disconnected the silence was so deep. “What happened?” she demanded, her voice pitching upwards. 

“They drove me off the road–Marta I’m so sorry, I went into a ditch and hit a tree–”

“Did you call 911?!” she asked, frantic. “Where are you, I’m coming right now!”

“Not far–no, I haven’t called them yet, I didn’t get a good look at the plates–”

“Benoit Blanc you hang up and call 911 right now! I’m on my way, do you understand? Benoit!”

And around him, the snow began to fall. 


	11. Chapter 11

“I can’t BELIEVE you.”

“I’m fine–”

“Your collarbone could be broken! You could have whiplash, a concussion–Benoit!”

Two hours was long enough to still be waiting to see a doctor, though that had given him plenty of time to give his statement to the officers that followed them to the hospital. There was a good inch of snow on the ground by the time he escaped the emergency room, coat in hand. It hurt too much to try and get it on, and he resigned himself to freezing between the door and the car.

“At least let me––” and she grabbed his coat and tugged. He let it go with a blink, and even though her face was furious, she hung the coat on his shoulders as gently as she could, taking care not to jostle his left side as she lifted the collar, bringing it as close around his neck and face as she could manage. 

Marta had showed up on the scene well before the police had, slipping on the frozen ground as she rushed down the ditch to get to him, her face pale. It was then he learned she’d worked as an EMT before she’d become a nursing aide, and though her voice was shaking, her hands were steady as she asked him the standard questions, checking his eyes with a flashlight she pulled from an emergency kit she had in her trunk. She’d insisted on taking him to the ER, but enough was enough. 

“It’s SNOWING,” she snapped at him. 

“Marta, please, I don’t want to spend another moment here,” he begged, feeling haggard. He could feel the pull of loose threads and he just couldn’t  _ think  _ in an Emergency Room. He needed quiet, a moment to go over what had just happened and how it all fit in the grand scheme of things—

He accepted Marta’s quiet fury as she marched past him, keys clenched in her hand. 

“You are a TERRIBLE patient,” she threw at him as she unlocked the rental car. 

Getting into the car took a moment; he had to hold his breath to keep the pain at bay and Marta had to reach over to help him get the seat belt on. Thank God it stretched over his good shoulder or he truly would have been in agony, although he had no illusion that the bruising would be spectacular by the time he got around to taking his clothes off. 

She was far more experienced at driving in snow than he was, and the rental had four wheel drive. Still, she was careful, eyes dead ahead as the snow fell even harder. It was a beautiful sight all the same, coming down straight and soft. He glanced down at his coat and caught sight of the perfect snowflake shapes before they melted away. He couldn’t recall the last time he saw a perfect snowflake. 

As she drove he stared out the window, still feeling in an absolute fog, the aftermath of adrenaline making him dull witted. The silence between them weighed on him. He tried to focus, and found he could not. Maybe he had suffered some sort of brain trauma. Maybe it was just the shock. 

“Marta–” he tried to begin.

“Please not while I’m driving. I have to focus on the road.” There was sudden light from a car coming from the other direction, and he could see the reflection of tears cutting paths down her cheeks. 

“Marta–” he tried again, feeling alarmed. 

“ _ Please _ .” And it was no request, but a command. 

It was another forty-five minutes of silence, which made it the longest car ride in Benoit’s life. Finally they pulled up to Two Deerborn Drive. 

There were tire tracks in the first half of driveway–Mr. Proofroc would have headed home by now. The snow that blanketed the driveway up to the house was unbroken and picturesque.

Marta parked close to the front door, and made her way to his side of the car to make sure he could get out. “I can’t believe you made us leave the emergency room,” she muttered under her breath. 

“I have no regrets,” he began, then hissed in pain as he moved his shoulder too quickly. He steadied himself as his coat slipped off, falling onto the snow. Marta swooped down to pick it up, but rather than let her drape it over him again, he tossed the offending article onto the passenger seat. “I may, however, rue and lament. Now, if I had been a detective in one of Mr. Thrombey’s stories, I’d barely be feeling–”

“Shut up,” she snapped, but then closed her eyes in remorse. “Please. I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“I’m sorry–I think I’m still a little bit loopy from that crash,” he offered as a white flag.

She hovered next to his good elbow as he made his way up the front steps, and opened the door for him. She ushered him towards the nearest couch, turning on lights as she went. Once he was sitting, she disappeared. 

The silence stretched before him, and he could feel his brain finally starting to shake itself awake again. He took a deep breath, and looked at the facts:

Trauma had a way of ruining one’s hold on the bigger picture, either by focusing on small things, or wiping out the board entirely. But Benoit has enough wherewithal to be sure that the figure he saw get back in the SUV had been a man, and the certainty it was the same car they had seen twice before on the same stretch of road was bone deep. That car drove him off the road. It was not by accident. Benoit had been driving Marta’s car. The driver knew Marta’s car? Had meant to drive her off the road, and got Benoit Blanc instead?

“Here, take these,” and Marta shoved a tall glass of water and several pills in his periphery. Looked like acetaminophen and ibuprofen. He swallowed them without a word, and got back to work. 

Was the driver one of these internet people threatening to kill Marta? Some might think that a leap, but he thought back to the Nazi Child. He’d facebooked or snapchatted or tiktoked–whichever didn’t matter–Marta’s escape after the will, which lead to her doxxing. The Internet knew the kind of car Marta drove. Hell, even the license plate had appeared briefly. So Marta’s car was recognizable. Traceable.

Now, he knew how difficult it was to uncover the estate’s address through the usual means available on the internet, nigh impossible—Benoit had used a favor from a colleague to confirm that, double check his own work. Even if someone might know the county, even the town, the deed search was particularly devilish. 

But this driver drove him off the road in Marta’s car, this person...this person had followed Marta down this road twice before. Had they seen her in town? Followed her car? 

“Benoit?”

Did they know the turn onto Deerborn Drive?

Marta lowered the ice pack she’d been holding against his collarbone. He came to, finally feeling the cold bite of it spreading under his shirt. “Benoit...what are you saying?” she asked, eyes wide with fear. It was then he realized he’d been talking his thoughts out loud. 

He sat up, swallowing the stab of pain with a gasp. “Marta. Pack a bag.”

“What?”

“Look, I know you think I’m not much of a patient, but I’m still a sight better at being a detective,” he said, waving his good hand around, “and I do know, without a doubt, that someone tried to kill you tonight. I have reason to suspect they know where the house is. I’ll get us some rooms, but you are most certainly not staying in this house another night.” 

“...Ok, let me just get this sling on you, and...I’ll pack a bag.”

“Don’t worry about me, just grab what you can,” and he gasped again; the pain he felt was the jab, but the  _ frustration _ was the right hook. 

“I had one job!” he growled, feeling trapped by his injury. “Your sister asked one thing of me, and now I’m functionally useless!”

“...What?”

And oh, the layers folded on top of that one word she said. Dumb animal instinct evolved from the generations of humans that could run away the fastest sat up and  _ cussed _ . 

––

Months earlier Marta had confessed all, leaving out no detail just as Benoit requested. 

Turnabout, Benoit found, was fair play. 

“I can’t believe you and Alice...conspired!” she said. And he found he missed her anger. It didn’t hurt as much as the sad, confused look on her face now. 

“Conspire is a little harsh––”

“Neither of you said anything! Why would you lie?”

“I didn’t lie!”

“You withheld pertinent information!”

It knocked the wind out of his sails; she’d taken the words right out of his mouth and honestly when she said it, it didn’t sound half as reasonable as it had in his head. 

“Marta––If I have told you your sister had called and I knew about the threats and I was worried about you so I gave you a ring and oh, you need help let me come up to lend a hand, would you have let me come?” he blurted out, hanging onto the last frayed thread at the end of his rope. 

“No! I wouldn’t have,” she admitted, voice rising in panic as she looked away from him. 

“...Why NOT?” he cried. 

“I don’t want to be a burden!”

The silence was so thick he could hear the tick of his wristwatch. The tell he’d noticed months ago–the rapid agitation of her leg–was back in full swing, as her breathing was becoming erratic. 

“Marta, no one in this world that cares about you would think such a thing,” he assured her, trying to bring his own voice back to a calmer level. How could he have let this escalate, he was smarter than this–

“I don’t want anyone feeling like...like they have to take care of me!” she snapped, still not looking at him. 

And there was the heartbreak, alright. He chose his next words very, very carefully. 

“Marta. there is a world of difference between taking care of someone, and caring for someone. I’m not here because i think you need taking care of. I’m here because your sister called me because she cares about what happens to you, is nearly sick with worry over it. I came because I care about what happens to you. I came because I care about you, and you needed help. Can’t you see the difference?”

“You could have died. Because of me.”

“Well, I much prefer it was me in that car––” he tried to get in edgewise. 

“What about what I prefer?” she spat back, throwing herself up from the couch. She paced in front of him before making a sharp turn back on him. Her finger came up in accusation. “You said I was a good nurse. You said Harlan would have lived if he’d listened to me. So why did you leave the ER? Why won’t you listen to me!––”

_ Once when Benoit was a boy, he was out all afternoon with his best friend Peggy looking for frogs. When he’d made his way home, he’d found his father in the garage working on a whole lot of nothing, and Benoit had just known, just like he seemed to just know a lot of things, that there had been a fight.  _

_ Momma made him a sandwich for dinner and had brushed his hair out of his eyes with a gentle hand, but the thunderclouds that were rolling off her drove him out of the house, right back out to the garage.  _

_ Another boy might have been too intimidated to ask his father what had happened, but Benoit was not like other boys, much to the consternation of every teacher he’d had in his short academic career. Most adults dreaded his questions, shooting him down as fast as he could open his mouth. But his father had a streak of patience.  _

_ “Ben–when your older, it’s gonna happen. You’re gonna hurt the person you love, and you’ll have no idea how you could have stepped that thick into it without knowing the hurt it would cause. And you’re going to let them yell until you feel lower than a kicked dog, and whatever they say you’re going to agree to. Because you had it coming.” _

_ “But what if they’re wrong?” _

_ “Boy, didn’t you hear me? You’re gonna KNOW you were wrong! There’s not gonna be any two ways around it, and if you’re real lucky and not a damn fool you might just get out of it alive.” _

“...I’m sorry. I will go straight back to the ER as soon as we leave, I swear it. But we are leaving. Now.”

Marta swallowed, finally having run out of words. “I’m putting this sling on your arm,” she said finally, daring him to disagree as she held up the sling that Harlan had once needed for his own injured shoulder. 

Benoit sat up without a word and offered his left arm with a wince. Marta Cabrera was still a good nurse, and soon his arm was immobilized. She handed him the ice pack, and he obediently put it on his collarbone. Her mask fell back over her face as she pulled herself back together before his eyes.

“I’ll pack your things,” she said.

“Don’t worry about––” but he nipped that right in the bud at the look she shot him. “Right. Just. Try to be quick?”

He could hear Marta moving about upstairs when his cell buzzed. He’d put it in his right pocket, and he thanked Heaven for small favors. He saw the caller ID, and frowned as he picked up. 

“Trooper Wagner? Now’s not the––”

“Mr. Blanc, look, it’s my night off and I was doing a little more research because Elliott said Marta finally filed a report,” Wagner cut him off, and the tone of his voice made Benoit sit up. “And there’s this post from like, only an hour ago bragging about finding out where the Great Writer lived and how he’s going to avenge him tonight and people were telling him he’s full of shit, so he posted photos––”

The ice pack fell from Benoit’s fingers. He knew exactly where Wagner was going next. Could see it plain as day. 

“––But don’t worry I’ve already told Elliott and he’s sending some officers over to the house to check it out, but just don’t go rushing out of the ER, ok? I mean,” and Wagner gave a weak laugh, “I’m kind of glad you were in that accident, you know, I mean, I’m glad you’re ok, but it means you’re not at the house––”

“We’re at the house,” and the words were ash in Benoit’s mouth. He looked towards the dark stairs. He could still hear Marta moving around upstairs.

“What? No. No no fuck. Fuckfuckfuck––” Wagner moaned. 

“I have to get Marta. We’re leaving now, let Elliott know,” Benoit said, and he hung up. 

He rose and walked to the stairs, trying to keep his steps calm though his heart was pounding. “Marta!” he yelled up the stairs, focusing on sounding calm. Completely calm. Not an iota panic here. No sir. “Let’s go. Now, if you please.” 

And like that Marta was down the stairs with two bags in hand. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you in the car,” he said, pushing her towards the door with his good arm. 

“I put the keys on the counter, let me–”

“I’ll get them, you just––”

A match was struck, and Benoit knew that smell. 

His cigar. The one he’d left up in his room.

Marta froze next to him as a sudden hacking cough erupted behind them.

“Drop the cell, detective,” the man croaked, and coughed again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we all know Benoit Blanc is brilliant and perfect but what if, hear me out, nearly all of his cases are solved because he’s literally always in the wrong place at the right time? 


	12. Chapter 12

“I said,” and the man coughed again. “drop the cell.”

Benoit obliged. It hit the carpet with a soft thud.

“Turn around, but slowly.”

The fog over his perception lifted at the waft of danger. Benoit and Marta turned as instructed, though Benoit tried his best to land a foot in front of hers so that she was partially behind him.

A man in a college sweatshirt and dark jeans raised his gun with a wrist masquerading as flippant. The cigar that had been in Benoit’s bag, abandoned since Marta had expressed disdain for smoking, was clenched in his teeth. The man wasn’t used to the smoke—his eyes were watering. 

“Oh my God—” Marta breathed. “You’re that guy from the store.”

She’d caught it before Benoit--later on, he supposed it because he had dismissed the man in the check-out line as annoying but harmless. But it was the same man from a few days ago, the one that had been bothering Marta. He remembered how she’d been worried he had recognized her from the news. 

The man took the cigar from his mouth with his free hand, and smiled. It was smug and made Benoit’s skin crawl. “I have to say, that was the best part. You had no idea,” the man crowed. “I saw your car around town at Christmas, I’ve been waiting to see if I could run across you again and I just walked up to you in the store and you had no idea who I was.”

\--

_ Once when Benoit was a boy, he’d been at school when Reggie Clarke in the 8th grade said he’d heard from the janitor who heard from the Johnson store clerk on lunch break that his daddy had stopped a bank robbing without any shots being fired.  _

_ It had made for a truly unbearable afternoon at school. _

_ Benoit had run home as fast as he could as soon as the last bell rang. His momma hadn’t any news aside from that his daddy was alright, and he had to wait until the evening to get the whole story. _

_ When his daddy got home, Benoit had asked him how he’d stopped the bad guys without using his gun. He’d imagined something like a stand-off. He shared his theories as his daddy puts his gun in the special drawer no one was supposed to touch, along with his badge.  _

_ “Ben, my boy. I’m going to stop you right there,” Daddy said, changing out of his uniform. “If the first thing you reach for is your gun instead of your words, you’ve already lost.” _

_ “So you just...talked to him?” Benoit asked. _

_ “Sure. And he talked some too.” Daddy had said. “You’ve gotta keep’em talking. It works more times than it doesn’t.” _

_ \-- _

“My name’s Benoit Blanc--” he tried easing into it, hoping to get the man’s name.

“Yea, I know,” the man cut him off, waving the gun around emphatically. “You’re that asshole that got her off!” 

Well. Shit. 

Benoit took another step in front of Marta. Her hand grabbed his elbow, and he ignored the exclamation point behind it. 

“I admit, you have us at a disadvantage,” Benoit tried again, trying to keep his voice low and calm, his right hand in his pocket like this was just a Sunday reception and people were just getting heated over the potato salad. Wagner had said officers would be over to check out the house, but how long would that be? Even if he’d reached out to the local force after Benoit had hung up, they would be lucky if officers showed up in twenty minutes or less.

A lot could happen in less than twenty minutes. 

“Come to think of it,” Benoit continued, “I didn’t think anyone could find Harlan Thrombey’s estate. How did you manage that?”

The man cackled, and lowered his gun. “I’m the fucking first!” he declared. “Everyone else was trying to do it through deeds and shit because of the Game but I was like, fuck that—”

“The Game?” Benoit prompted.

“You know, The Game!” And as he rambled Benoit took the moment to commit him to memory. Medium build, decently groomed but with a furious air. A nervous energy. Dark hair. Light complexion. Nothing else that might draw notice but for the weapon in his hand. An easy person to overlook before it was too late. 

“Everyone was always trying to follow Thrombey, and he’d like, leave clues and stuff at signings and things, and like, the winner would get like, a fancy dinner or a drink on him, right?”

Benoit could feel Marta cursing behind him. 

“But like, then there was  _ The Game _ . Find out where he lived. Show up at the door. That was the real win, right? But of course most people in the fandom are too much of a fucking pussy to go through with actually looking. Gotta respect the master, that was like, the rule. And like, I get it, but then—” and a dark emotion twisted over his face. “This bitch killed him.”

“What makes you so sure of that?” Benoit gambled.

“Are you kidding? Everyone knows she was his nurse! It’s obvious she killed him!”

“Well, actually--” Bless, he couldn’t help himself. There were just times folks were so wrong he couldn’t help but say a thing. 

“Don’t you fucking dare! I know you helped her! I read the articles!” the man said, and the gun swung upwards once more. 

Well.  _ Shit.  _

Benoit bit back his comment about conjecture. His primary objective was keeping Marta safe. 

No matter the personal cost. 

“She’s going to destroy Thrombey’s legacy! She’s keeping it from the people who care about it the most! She’s keeping it from his family! From his fans! Jesus, how stupid are you?”

Benoit hedged, and made several confused noises. “I’m gonna need you to enlighten me,” he offered, slathering the accent on as thick as frosting on a child’s birthday cake. 

The man groaned, bending backwards to growl towards the ceiling like he was in physical pain. 

“Benoit—” Marta hushed. He dared a glance at her to try and sush her. She cocked her head in the sort of silent panic that screamed ‘Don’t’.

“Look, it’s all her, right? Because of her, his work isn’t in the family’s hand! Because of her, we’re never going to get it!”

“And you are…?”

“The fans!” the man exploded. “Thrombey’s real fans, we’ve been following his stuff for years, no one understands how important it is than us! After he died it was obvious!”

“Oh?” Benoit prompted. Then, he gambled. “But you solved  _ The Game, _ ” Benoit prompted, throwing the same emphasis where the man had. “That was awful clever of you. Even my contact couldn’t figure it out.”

“ _ Benoit _ —” Marta hissed again, and he could feel her trying to pull herself next to him. He couldn’t allow that. He tried, as subtle as possible, to scoop her back behind himself. 

The man gave a staccato laugh. “I never would have if it hadn’t been for the livestream!” the man declared, and Benoit could feel Marta stiffen behind him. “The plan was to take care of her at her place, but then it got doxxed and she moved so fast, I really thought it was over. Until Christmas!”

The man had started pacing, distracted for the moment. Benoit weighed their options. 

He knew there was no chance they could turn, get out the door before getting shot in the back. To the right was Thrombey’s ground floor study which was a dead end, and past the staircase was the hallway towards the library. Everything else was a bust, but with enough of a head start, maybe the library—

“The crazy thing was it was a total fluke! I just happened to see her car at the grocery store and I thought, no shit, no way! But I double checked the livestream footage and it was her car!”

As the man continued pacing, Benoit began inching towards the hallway next to the stairs. Marta’s hand was still clenching his good elbow, and he could feel her against his outstretched arm. She followed his lead, the duffel bag she’d packed bumping against her leg. 

“Everyone knows Thrombey lived around here, it’s in so many of his books, interviews! So I figured...ok. I’ll wait. She got the house, she must live here now, right? But every time I saw the car, I couldn’t quite follow the whole way, right?”

“Are you shitting me?” Marta exhaled, like it was poison in her mouth that needed spitting out. 

“So you followed her. Followed her car enough to learn the turn into Deerborn. Followed her enough to come up to her at a store, confirm her name. Followed her enough to gloat, just before you’d be making the final blow,” Benoit realized, again trying to push Marta behind him as the pieces finally fell into their places. 

If the man had feathers, he’d preen. 

“It was comically simple,” the man said, waving the cigar in the air for dramatic effect. 

“No, it’s just private investigating. Pity, you’d probably be good at it,” Benoit offered. 

The man drew himself together, taking another draw from the cigar like it was a power play. He was able to hold back his cough into a mere choke this time instead. “Thanks for the cigar, by the way,” he wheezed. “I’d planned on taking...care of her once I’d run her off the road,” and Benoit could suss exactly what he meant by that. “But when I saw you get out of the car, I realized she was finally home alone. I rushed back, parked the car in the woods and walked up, but she was already gone.”

“And then you waited,” Benoit said, and the chill he felt wasn’t from his lack of a coat. “You’ve been watching for a few days at least, what was a few hours more? So you broke in, what, through the back door? And you waited.”

“You thought I’d come back alone,” Marta cut in, the realization thick in her voice. 

The man seemed thrown off. “...Yea. I figured he’d have to stay in the hospital or some shit,” he said. “But. Obviously that didn’t happen so—”

Benoit had always found adrenaline to be a hell of a drug. It had a hefty bill after the fact, but once it was in the bloodstream, ho boy—for Benoit it was like a shot of painkillers, steroids, and time distortion all in one. It was the recounting of what happened after the fact he always struggled with. 

This is how he recalled the events of that foyer:

Marta pulled on his elbow hard enough to finally make him take his eyes off the man. Her eyes held a Plan, and before he could protest, she’d sidestepped him, and tossed the duffle bag with the power of a master softball underhand pitch and had yelled—

”RUN!”

In quick succession, two things happened:

The duffle bag hit the man square in the face, and Benoit could recall the flash of the gun’s metal flying through the air, as well as the trajectory of the cigar. Marta then yanked on his good arm, and pivoting, he followed her in a run down the hallway towards the library. 

He remembered hearing the man curse. He remembered looking over his shoulder, and seeing the man dive out of sight, looking for his wayward gun. 

And he saw the door of the hallway bathroom, and he made a choice. 

~~

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. 

Honestly? It’s why Benoit never dared touch the harder stuff. 

The hallway bathroom door was cracked open, and he grabbed the back of Marta’s sweater. It threw her off, and he used that momentum to push her through the door. 

The force made her overshoot—she landed on her hands and knees. 

“Wait, then run like hell!” was all he could say as she rolled over to look at him. The shock on her face was the last he saw before he closed the door and turned to continue down the hallway. He knew it was a gamble, one of the biggest of his—

“Hey!” 

Benoit stopped in the doorframe at the end of the hall, and turned. The man had the gun back in his hand, and was waving it in a manner that suggested he meant business. 

Benoit was a man who loved theater. He turned his head from the man and shouted around the corner— 

“Marta! Run!” 

—before he cleared the doorway himself just in time, if the percussion of a small firearm and the crack of wood splintering was any indication.

If he was lucky—very very lucky—Marta would backtrack out the front door, run for the road or hide in the woods, and never look back.

~~

_ “What is it, Ben?” _

_ “But what if he’d shot at you?” _

_ And his daddy had sat down on the edge of the bed. He’d pulled on a polo shirt over his undershirt, but he was still wearing his uniform pants.  _

_ “Ben. You know I love you, right?” _

_ And Benoit offered an affirmative.  _

_ “I will do everything I can to make sure I come home to you and your mother. But there were a lot of other mothers, and fathers, and children, and friends there today. And a gun holds a lot of bullets. I was the only person there who might have been able to get him to lower that gun. Be it with words or something else. That’s the job, Ben. I serve, and I protect.”  _

_ “If you had to, you would have shot him,” Benoit had said. _

_ “Yes.” _

_ “That’s murder.” _

_ “Son.” And later in life he’d recognize the anguish there. “You’re not wrong.” _

~~

“Stop!”

And another percussion of a shot firearm in the short hallway. Benoit kept running. 

“God damnit stop!” 

And this time Benoit could swear he could hear the bullet wizz pass his ear. He stopped. 

“Don’t move!”

And Benoit didn’t. 

The library had an ever present ambient lightning on a timer he and Marta hadn’t removed yet, the empty shelves around him taunted him. The room felt cold and bleak after days of packing it up. 

“Where is she?” the man demanded.

“She’s already gone,” Benoit shot back, lifting his good hand. He pivoted.

The man was tearing at his hair in anguish. “FUCK!” he cried. 

“Look...I don’t know your name, but—-” Benoit gambled, cashing in every least chip he had in life for more time.

“Jared,” the man offered.

“Jared. Jared, you seem to have come here with a plan,” Benoit started to spin, gesturing in a friendly manner between then both, “And between you and me, is this really where you saw your night going?”

This seemed to throw Jared. “I was ready—”

“Yes, yes, you were ready to see the deed done. In a ditch. In the dark,” Benoit said, allowing his greatest gift to take over. “But this house. You’ve been sitting here for a while. You went through my things. Did you find Harlan’s upstairs study? Ah,” he said, seeing the confused look on Jared’s face. “It’s a trick door, I think you’d appreciate it. But I’m getting away from myself. No, I suspect this is not how you wanted this night to go, Jared. And it’s only gonna get trickier for you from here.”

Jared opened his mouth, and the fire alarm went off.

It felt like a dream, or a joke. Benoit racked his brain for an explanation, and finally recalled the trajectory of the lit cigar. The vast majority of furniture might have been removed, but curtains and rugs still littered the house. It must have flown then rolled too close to something decidedly flammable. 

The unbidden thought sprung in his mind, a memory of Marta saying smoking was bad for him. 

Well, if they kept lollygagging in the library she wouldn’t be wrong. 

“Fuck, fuck fuck—” Jared cursed, his eyes wide. He looked towards the hallway, and back at Benoit. The panic on his face bloomed. “Fuck, I can’t let it burn down--where’s the fucking fire extinguisher!” he demanded, turning the gun back on Benoit. 

“I don’t recall seeing one,” Benoit said, and that was the truth. Smoke began rolling into the library from the hallway, white at first, but Benoit knew it would turn black and acrid fast enough. “Jared, we need to get out—”

“No, we have to save the house—”

“It’s an old house with old wood, there’s no stopping this train!” Benoit told him, and he meant it. “Just put the gun down and let’s—”

“No!” Jared said, and the gun came back up. “Thrombey’s papers! His work! Where is it?”

“The upstairs study. One with the trick door. At the top of the only staircase,” Benoit said. He didn’t need to hem and haw, the smoke was getting darker, and was really starting to pour into the room. Jared turned again, and it didn’t take a genius to know he wasn’t getting upstairs that way. 

Benoit only hoped Marta was clear of the house. 

“You know, you could always climb the trellis. Get to the upstairs study through the hallway window. You might still be able to save the hard drive if you hurry,” Benoit told him, oh so helpfully. 

Jared cursed again. “But she’ll get away! And then she’ll be able to file a report and I’ll go to jail!” But then he paused.

“The girl or the hard drive, Jared. What’s more important to you?” Benoit posited, hoping Jared picked hard drive. Benoit would help him too, take him right to the trellis if he had to Anything to give Marta more time to put more distance between them. He could hear the crackle of the fire in the front of the house now, the growing roar of hungry flames. The smoke was rising to the top of the library. 

“I won’t let her get away with it!” Jared cried, anguished. Benoit’s heart fell—Jared had picked Marta. Now it was only a matter of if she’d gotten enough of a head start. “There’s snow on the ground, I’ll be able to track her footsteps, I’ll be able to catch up to her—” And his face twisted oddly. And then he let out a short laugh. “The fire will burn you up, there won’t be any evidence I was here—”

“Oh, so I’m just going to lie down and let the fire take me?” Benoit asked, affronted. 

“No, no I’ll shoot you, but like, at an angle, like it was a suicide—”

“Son, that’s not how this works,” Benoit offered. “That’s not how any of this works.”

“No, ok, wait—” and Jared fished a bottle out of his pocket. “I had this idea to make her death look like an overdose? I thought it was poetic. Here, swallow these!” he ordered, shaking the bottle of pills at Benoit. 

“No.”

Jared shook the bottle again with greater violence. “Do it!” 

“Or what, you’ll shoot me?” Benoit said, making a face at the absurd suggestion. It was true the man was still holding a gun, but this was becoming a farce. 

“Fine! I will!” Jared screamed, and he raised his gun one last time.

Benoit raised his hand in alarm, and opened his mouth for one last Hail Mary pass. “In what world would I help you cover your tracks, Jared? Literally cover your tracks, that snow outside you’ll try to follow Marta in isn’t going to melt any time soon! You’ve already made choices that ren’t going to make things easy for you, but I promise you—if you murder me, if you try to murder Marta, there will be no going back. It’s not too late to stand down—”

“Fuck you! I swear to fuck if you don’t—”

Benoit assumed he was going to say ‘shut up’, but he never got the chance. There was a dull but deadly sounding  _ THWAP _ , and Jared’s eyes rolled up as his knees collapsed. 

As he fell to the ground, Marta was revealed, small and fierce and holding the unshattered, very expensive bottle of Scotch in her hand.

“Marta,” Benoit whispered, his face suddenly feeling numb. It would have felt like relief if it wasn’t for the spreading fire. “I told you—”

Marta dropped the bottle, and rushed towards Benoit.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for how long this chapter took. I decided to post what I had so far and to hell with it. HOPEFULLY There’s only one chapter left, with a coda as most. Thank you everyone for your lovely amazing comments so far!


	13. Chapter 13

The hug knocked the breath out of him as she buried her face in his chest, her dark hair hiding her features. She mumbled something in Spanish—he didn’t catch it, but he could feel it. 

“Marta,” he said, shaking her shoulder slightly. “Marta, we have to get out of here.”

Jared was out cold on the ground. Benoit kicked the gun away, and hesitated. He couldn’t just leave him there to die, but he only had the one good arm—

“I’ve got him, you get out,” Marta ordered, and without hesitation she pulled Jared’s dead weight into an upright sitting position, maneuvered her arms around his chest, and with a fluid motion lifted his body into a shoulder drag. 

“...Right, nurse,” Benoit muttered, and he led the way, checking doors before opening them as they moved away from the fire and escaped out the side porch. 

The automatic light went on as they stumbled outside. By now the still falling snow was up to his ankles and soft underfoot, perfect for snowballs. There was no wind, and it fell in almost perfectly straight lines. Marta wasn’t far behind him, but was starting to struggle with Jared’s body. “I need to get him to the car,” she huffed. “He’s still passed out, I’m worried about brain damage. I shouldn’t have hit him so hard—”

“He was going to kill you!” Benoit reminded her.

“He was going to kill you,” she huffed, shaking her head at his attempt to lend his only hand as she dragged the body down the patio stairs. 

“And then try to kill you,” Benoit repeated, feeling a little discombobulated. 

“Get the car open, I think I can pull him into the back seat,” she said, taking a moment to catch her breath and adjust her grip. “We can’t leave him lying in the snow.”

“He should of thought of that before he tried to murder you,” was all Benoit could think to mutter as he turned. There was just no further arguing about it. 

He reached into his pocket with his good hand when he remembered the keys to the rental had been left on the kitchen counter. He glanced back at the house—there was a crash of glass as the fire claimed more rooms. Resigned, he kicked around the snow until he found a suitably sized decorative rock. “I should have gotten the rental insurance,” he said to no one in particular as he picked it up. 

“Benoit, I will pay for the fucking rental!” Marta cried in exasperation. She’d gotten close enough to overhear him. Jared slipped out of her grasp but she was able to ease gravity’s inevitability and protected his neck and shoulders from hitting the ground. She stood upright to catch her breath. Her face was red from the exertion. Jared wasn’t the largest of men, but he was still out cold. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to yell. It’s been a day.”

“That is an understatement. And no harm done,” Benoit offered, and he broke the rental’s window with the rock. Thankfully no alarm went off, a small favor. He unlocked the car, and opened the back door for Marta. She rolled her shoulders, and picked Jared back up. 

She struggled to get Jared’s body in the back seat—Benoit tried to help as he could by grabbing the scruff of Jared’s sweatshirt and pulling. Marta then went around the other side of the car to check his vitals. 

“Benoit, he’s coming too!” Marta said instead as she stepped away from the car. 

—

Jared would need further medical care, but for the moment he was stable, and probably would have spit out barbed wire if they’d given him nails to chew on.His language was vile—they were able to tie his hands and feet, and left him in the back of the car, screaming and cursing. They walked as far as they could with the car still in view just to get away from his verbal abuse, and his yells died down as his voice finally gave up. 

Benoit had grabbed his coat from the front seat—another small favor that he’d left it behind in the car. He’d tried to put it on Marta, but she swatted his hand away, and instead draped it over his shoulders. He grabbed her with his good arm, and tugged. 

“Come here,” he said, and his voice cracked a bit. He cleared his throat. The smoke from the house must’ve gotten to him. “It’s freezing.”

Marta came easily, bringing her arms around him once more, tucking her face against him as she hugged him fiercely. He rubbed her back with the one hand, and the tension in her started to unwind just a bit as she shifted and settled under the wing of his good arm.

Adrenaline cashed in the receipts, and his collarbone stabbed him with a burning pain that only seemed to grow with each breath. He tried to control his breathing as a thousand words tumbled in his head, threatening escape. He’d almost lost her, AGAIN, it was over, he’d be leaving soon, it’d be the last time he’d see her, do something, do something you old fool— 

It was a slow, gentle descent as he rested his chin on the top of her head. She was nestled perfectly, just the right height. He found he didn’t want to let go. Not yet. 

She didn’t move or startle. “Benoit? Are you alright?” she said, the concern clear in her voice. 

“Sorry,” he said, and he could feel beads of wet in the corner of his eyes. The pain was getting to him. He wasn’t quite sure if it was all the collarbone, though. “I’m just suddenly very tired. Think I’ll try that emergency room again. This alright though?” he asked. 

It couldn’t be, of course. She was so much younger than him. But if he could just keep holding her just for a little bit longer—

She shifted her weight again, and it was instantly easier on his collarbone. “Of course,” she said, and it felt like a promise. “Just lean on me.” 

Fire made quick work of the estate. The fire department showed up just as the roof collapsed in the front of the house, a plume of sparks flying up into the winter’s sky. The wind had picked up, but it was kind enough to keep the smoke from their eyes as they watched. 

He could see a police officer spot them, and rush towards them. Marta made a noise. And another. She was fighting back laughter.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“This is fine,” she said, and burst into laughter. 

**CODA**

“We’re almost there—are you sure you’ll be ok flying? I know it’s just a hairline fracture but—”

“The flight’s so short, I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Never,” Marta said, as she changed lanes. “Stop saying that, it isn’t true.”

“I’ll be fine,” Benoit reassured her again. He could feel the smile on his face. It tasted bittersweet. “I had a most excellent nurse tell me exactly what she’d do to me if I didn’t follow her precise instructions for pain management and physical therapy.” 

“I know where you live,” she threatened, but her tone was teasing. 

It had been a week. The bones of the house were still there, and half of it was even untouched by the fire. But Harlan’s secret study had been in part of the house that had collapsed, and with it went his notes, his computer, and the hard drive. Maybe Marta hadn’t been able to do it by her own hand, but Harlan’s wish had been fulfilled. 

Marta finally caved and finally did what she should have done from the beginning; throw money at problems until they went away. She put them both up in a hotel while she paid a very eager agent to find a new apartment for her family. She ended up with a place whose sticker price only made her squirm in discomfort. But Benoit approved of the security provided, and that it wasn’t inhabited by the sort of tenants that might assume the Cabreras were the help. Best of all it was close enough to her mother’s church.

No, for all intents and purposes, a weight had been lifted from Marta’s shoulders. The work was hardly over for her, of course, but for a moment, she’d seemed lighter—until he told her he’d purchased a ticket for back home. 

It was Moving Day for the Cabreras, but Marta had insisted on driving him to the airport. Benoit did regret that he was leaving before Mrs. Cabrera could get settled enough into her new kitchen. She’d been ecstatic to meet ‘Marta’s Mr. Blanc’, had wept for all he had done for ‘her Marta’, and had bemoaned that she couldn’t cook dinner for him in gratitude. 

Marta was still getting used to her new car. Well; new used car. “They were too new, it made me nervous,” she’d admitted as they drove off the lot just a few days ago. He’d laughed at that. It was so entirely Marta. 

“I do feel bad leaving,” he began as she followed the signs for the airport. “You’re growing in notoriety online, people seem convinced you burned down the house for the insurance money. You be careful, you hear? And if you or Alice notice anything, you don’t hesitate—”

“You’ll be the first person I call,” she said.

“The police first, then me. They’ll get to you first,” he made her promise. “But I’ll be close behind.”

“...Do they really think I burned down the house for money?” she asked, baffled.

“People like to think there’s more to any story, especially if it relates to Harlan Thrombey. You know,” he continued, trying to lighten the mood, “I vouch for you for one more crime and people will start to think I’m involved. Helping you cover it up.”

“Now that sounds like a Thrombey story,” she muttered, her cheeks turning red. “Third time’s a pattern, you know.”

“Next time our path’s cross, let’s leave the crime at home, eh?” he offered. That did get a laugh out of her. 

They drove in companionable silence for a bit. He didn’t even realize he was humming until she interrupted him to ask what the song was.

“My apologies, I was thinking,” he explained. He could feel her waiting for him to continue, a gentle unspoken ‘go on’ that was so natural for Marta. “I’ve been thinking about why Harlan gave you the inheritance.”

“I wish I knew. He was so upset about if all the money had ruined his family, his relationship to them. I just don’t understand why he would then...saddle me with it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m  _ grateful _ ,” she said, turning to glance at him. “But all of it? Why not give it to some charity? What was he thinking?”

“I think Harlan felt you’d already made something of your life. That was important to him, wasn’t it? He ended up feeling like his money got in the way of his family making something of themselves.”

Marta made a scoffing noise. “I wasn’t making anything before I met Harlan, I was just trying to get by, keep my family housed and—”

“Ah, but that’s the thing,” he continued. “Maybe it wasn’t a publishing empire, or a real estate empire, but you put herself through nursing school. You took care of your mother while her undocumented status made life hard. You were paying the rent on your old apartment, you were keeping your family together. How could Harlan NOT see you as a self-made woman?”

Marta seemed to struggle with the thought. “But still, he went on and on about how much money ruined people—”

“I don’t think Harlan realized how much it might hurt you, I don’t think he thought of how his family would react. Which I do think was an incredible short sighted gaff made by a man who should have understood human greed a little better. But how would he know that the video posted on the Internet and the honeyed words of a bitter son would inspire a third party to lash out? No, I don’t think Harlan understood how his choice could hurt you. But he knew you had already proven your salt. My dear Marta,” he said, meaning it from the deepest part of himself, “you’d already made something of yourself long before you met Harlan Thrombey. I think he gave you the money because he wanted you to finally take what you wanted from life.”

“Well, we can’t always get what we want,” she finally said. “Money makes things easier, but it doesn’t—well there are just some problems it can’t fix,” she ended lamely. 

He found those words curious. “And what problems are those?” he asked, genuinely wanting to know.

But she only shook her head. “We’re here,” she said, and though she tried to inject some lightness to her words, she only sounded sad. Surprised, he looked back out the window, and his heart sank. 

It was truly time to go.

His left arm was still in a sling, but he’d gotten the hang of unbuckling his seatbelt with his good hand. Marta still got out of the car to grab his bag from the back—it was a small carry-on she had insisted on buying for him, just like she’d insisted on getting him some clothes and other sundries seeing as what he’d brought with him had been lost in the fire. 

Just then, he was reminded of something, and with a soft exclamation patted down the inner pockets of his coat. 

He pulled out the photo of his father and Harlan. It was still there, right where he left it, and forgot all about it. Marta’s face lit up. “You still have it!” she said, clapping her hands in delight. 

“I couldn’t think of a better souvenir of the whole affair,” he declared, and was careful to put it back in his coat pocket. “I’m afraid however, that is my cue.” And he opened his good arm in invitation. 

She accepted shyly, careful of his slinged arm as she hugged him goodbye. 

He was damned lucky to have found a friend in Marta, kind, beautiful Marta. There was no sense in ruining it all on wanting something more when he already had something extraordinarily precious. He knew he was being soppy, but he just felt such love towards Marta, he do anything for her—

He was so lost in his own thoughts he didn’t notice her move until her lips brushed his cheek. “Thank you. For everything,” she whispered in his ear, and he knew the sensation would haunt him sweetly the entire flight. 

“Always. Anytime,” he managed as she slid out from under his arm. She made her way back to the driver’s side but paused, then stepped up so she could see him over the top of the car. She had the strangest look on her face, like she was at the top of a rollercoaster just before it took the first dive. 

“We should go on a vacation,” she decided. 

It honestly threw him for a loop. “You mean,” and he motioned back and forth between them, not wanting to make any assumptions. 

“Yes. Why not?” she confirmed. 

Oh, Benoit could think of a million reasons why not. “Consider my calendar free,” he said instead. 

“Let’s go somewhere warm,” she said. 

“Surprise me,” he offered. 

She nodded, and hopping down, got into her car. He waved with his slinged arm as best he could as she drove off. 

Benoit was not precisely sure what just happened. He wasn’t even precisely sure how he felt about it. 

He was absolutely certain however that he would see it through to the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your amazingly kind comments and for coming with me on this trek. I have an idea for a sequel and hopefully will be able to deliver!


End file.
